


the thing with feathers

by bacondoughnut



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, I will die on that hill, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Sibling Bonding, Team as Family, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Trauma, i cannot stress how much this is about the Found Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: When Dick and Bruce go missing and Tim can't find them on his own he turns to the only other person he can think of for help, Jason. He just hopes they can keep from killing each other long enough to save their family.or; Tim's finally able to bring Jason back into the family. They learn to love each other. Eventually.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 304





	1. skyfall is where we start / a thousand miles and poles apart

**Author's Note:**

> "Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all." Emily Dickinson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from adele's 'skyfall'  
> happy reading!

Gotham almost feels like a different city before nightfall.

The sunset decorates the snowbanks plowed to the sides of the roads in cindering yellows and oranges, giving the distinct impression of a smoldering flame. Or a spotlight. The last thing Jason needs right now is a god damn spotlight. It's why he prefers working the graveyard shifts. Well, that and the fact that his usual playmates have always been more on the nocturnal side.

Of course, tonight he's not waiting for one of just the usual playmates.

He puffs a breath into his gloved hands before rubbing them together in the vain hopes at warming them. It might be more effective if he wasn't currently laying flat on his belly on some frozen concrete roof in the middle of winter.

He's got a sniper rifle assembled and ready on the roof before him, a thermos of hot coffee at his elbow. He's in this one for the long haul and nothing's gonna stop him. The fluorescent name of the bar whose roof he's borrowing hums indistinctly just below him; the sparking fuse to a doomsday device. Feels apt.

"What the fuck do _you_ want?"

The foot steps are close enough to know he only hears them because they want him to. There's a pretty short list of people in Gotham who can get the drop on him. Not one of whom, by the way, does he have any desire to see right now.

"We have to talk."

In honesty, The Replacement wasn't his first guess.

He adjusts the focus on the rifle. Says, despite a flicker of curiosity, "Not interested."

"It's important," Tim says, strained.

"So's this." Otherwise he wouldn't be freezing his tits off right now.

An irritable scoff. "I don't know what _this_ is, but it can wait."

"I guarantee you it can't."

"Why not?" Tim asks, through clenched teeth it sounds like. And they say he's the one with anger issues.

Jason shrugs.

He doesn't have to explain himself to anyone, least of all the two-bit sidekick who actually _chose_ to be named after a god damn diner chain. Not to mention that the bats aren't historically the most supportive when he shares his plans with them. Although the sniper rifle, for sure, does give away a few key details.

But the kid's not going anywhere, so after a second Jason rolls his eyes and offers vaguely, "Circus is in town, kid."

"Circus..." Tim echoes curiously. Understanding dawns. "The Joker."

"Yahtzee."

"He's coming here?"

"No, but his friends are. With a very pricey munitions delivery to boot."

He leaves out that two of those friends happens to be Ajax and Tino. They go way back, all the way to that 'crime circus' stunt from back when Dick was the one in pixie boots. Those two are special. Jason's bullets are reserved for their kneecaps; one of them is going to tell him where he can find the Joker. This shit's gone on long enough.

He continues, "If you're gonna keep talking at least get outta sight. You're gonna blow my cover."

It's met with a frustrated huff, but an instant later a solid weight appears at his side. Tim sounds surprised, somehow, "That's what's so important? Slightly inconveniencing the Joker?"

"Hey, he ruined my life. Least I can do is ruin his night."

"Dammit, this can wait," Tim snaps.

And they're lucky Jason likes to be early, because that kind of noise definitely throws a wrench in all his careful sneaking around. He rolls his eyes and doesn't acknowledge. He's hoping if he just ignores the kid he'll get bored and go away. It turns out, his silence has the opposite effect.

His view through the rifle scope goes black as something blocks the lens. He pulls his head back to see Tim's hand covering it, a pointed glare on his face. Little shit. He says again, "I need to talk to you. _Now."_

Jason sighs.

If his intel's right, and it usually is, they've got less than five minutes before his targets arrive. He can't be distracted when they get here, and he certainly can't have some incessant junior detective making noise, drawing their attention, giving him away before it's time. But the kid's nothing if not persistent.

He swats Tim's hand away from his gun and asks reluctantly, "What is so important?"

"I need your help."

Okay, that one throws him.

If anyone asks he'll never admit it, but a slight concern sparks in his gut and he finds himself looking the kid over for any sign of injury. The only way he can see Tim coming to him for help is if he's in serious trouble. Like, bleeding out and the only other people around are Jason and Killer Croc--no, scratch that, Tim would probably ask Killer Croc for help first. But nothing immediately jumps out.

Tim's fine. Unharmed and not, he doesn't think, in immediate peril.

"You're joking." The frustration on Tim's face settles a little deeper. Fucking of course. "You're not joking. Can't you waste the Big Bird's time with this?"

"I would if I could."

That's nice and ominous.

He turns his attention back to the road below, saying, "Fine. Gimme twenty minutes, my wisdom is all yours."

"Would you fucking listen to me?"

The outburst catches Jason's attention more because he needs this roof to be totally quiet than anything else. The targets will be pulling up any minute.

"Keep it down," he says, leading by example with a firm whisper.

"I can't get a hold of Batman," Tim says, matching Jason's tone for both volume and vitriol. "I think he's been taken."

"Oh for--Because he's not answering your calls? He's probably just ignoring you, I do it to you guys all the time."

"He wouldn't do that to me."

Jason tuts. "Someone's optimistic."

It's not that he doesn't believe Tim, per se. But Bruce could easily just be absorbed in some fresh new crisis that of course only the Batman can handle. Or his comms could be down. And hell, even if he _is_ in some sort of trouble, he's pretty reasonably equipped to get himself out of it. It doesn't seem like anything that can't wait until after Jason's gotten the answers he needs from Joker's henchmen.

Tim gives a fractious growl. "What, and Nightwing's ignoring me too?"

"You can't get a hold of him either?"

It's not quite worry that tugs at the edges of his brow but something just adjacent.

Could still be nothing. If they were on a patrol together somewhere when Tim lost them it could definitely be patchy comms. They've had issues with that in the winter before, albeit not in a good few years, since they updated the tech to deal with it.

There's an engine humming in the distance. Might be his guys, might not. He asks, "When was the last time you heard from them?"

"Last night," Tim says, with a degree of I-told-you-so.

If any of what Jason knows about his replacement holds up to be true, Tim's spent the last twenty-four hours doing nothing but searching for them. Which, fuck. Probably mean this isn't a simple case of paranoia. Dick and Bruce are in trouble.

The van that'll be carrying Ajax and Tino pulls up just across the street. The delivery man should be along in the next few minutes and then his window closes. It's going to be a major pain in the ass tracking down some other way to get to that fucking clown.

"Ten minutes," Jason amends as he shifts his gaze back through the rifle scope. "I just have to-"

"Seriously, Jason?" Tim hisses, pulling his attention back with a smack to the shoulder. "What's more important? What do you 'have to' more than family? They need our help."

"They're _your_ family, not mine."

Funny, that simple truth feels more bitter than all the cold biting into his skin right now.

But it can't be the whole truth or else he wouldn't still be talking to this pushy, snotnose, featherweight teen. He wouldn't be about to give up the first decent shot he's had at an actually significant member of Joker's inner-circle in fucking months.

God dammit.

"Fine," he says, already shifting to disassemble the rifle with fingers only made marginally less deft by the freezing cold. "But they better not be hungover in a Bat Burger or something."

Tim doesn't answer beyond a vague sound of disapproval.

They stay low as they creep towards the other end of the roof to avoid drawing attention to themselves before following the kid's drain-pipe assisted descent to the alley behind the bar. The snow softens an already near perfect landing. The only noise to indicate their presence at all a faint splash as the toe of Jason's boot lands in an unseen puddle of sludge.

There's an all night diner on the corner about a block away from here. The sort that's certainly seen weirder things than the two of them before; there's a framed photo on the wall of King Shark gulping down three plates of pie. Nobody's going to look twice at either of them sitting down at a table. They are, apparently, twenty four hours overdue for a talk.

But, since he doubts Timothy fucking Drake's taken a second to think about food since yesterday night, Jason finds himself indicating the diner with a point and saying, "Here's what's gonna happen, half-pint. I'm gonna get you a burger, you're gonna tell me everything you've figured out so far. And we're gonna get this thing over with A.S.A.P. so I can get back to my fucking life. Sound like a plan?"

"Lose the part about you being a patronizing dick," Tim grouses. "And yeah, sounds like a plan."

And boy, this is just gonna be a blast. He's excited already.


	2. i know that you got a lot on your plate / you keep telling me i should get out of your way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jason: i hate tim  
> also jason, literally one chapter in: i need to feed this small angry child  
> lmao i love them
> 
> chapter title from nf's 'lost in the moment'

The night staff doesn't look twice at the Red Hood stepping through the door with Red Robin and what's obviously a rifle case both in tow.

But then, why would they? There's this guy at the counter who looks to be about twice as caffeinated as Tim is, with a disposition near as caustic as Jason's to boot. One of the other patrons Tim could spot as an out of work enforcer from a mile away. An autographed poster of the Condiment King hangs just above one of the booths.

In short, neither of them are the worst this diner's seen. They snag an empty booth in the back corner, beneath a flickering light and a series of vintage photographs of old Gotham.

It's not a random seating choice. The table's off from the windows. In a corner, so Jason can sit with his back to a wall and one side blocked off. Limits the ways in which a potential threat can come at you, offers the best view of the diner ahead. It's the table Bruce always picks whenever he eats somewhere public, too.

Unfortunately it also leaves Tim feeling nice and exposed when he takes the seat across the table, with his back to the diner. He trusts Bruce to watch his back. He doesn't expect the same courtesy from Jason.

Their server introduces herself as Caroline. She pours them both a cup of coffee and gives them each a menu, starts talking about dinner specials. And Tim's not trying to be rude, he's not. But this is so not the time. Time being something they may very well be working with a limited supply of. There are more important things to discuss than sandwich types.

"Just the coffee's fine," Tim says in a rush. Then, "Thank you. Ma'am."

Jason snorts, be it at his late attempt at manners or his indifference towards the menu.

"We're not talking," Jason reminds him obnoxiously. "'Till you eat something."

"I appreciate your concern and all, but I'm not--"

"Oh it ain't that, don't flatter yourself."

"--not hungry. Okay?"

"Not okay. When did you eat last?" Admittedly, it's been awhile. Jason flaps the menu up and down in Tim's face pointedly before dropping it and leaning back. He drapes one arm across the back of the bench and says, "You're no good to me or them if you're passing out from low blood sugar or whatever, alright? Plus I think you're hangry."

Hangry. Tim is not fucking _hangry_.

"This is serious, Hood."

Jason shrugs. "So am I."

Caroline asks if they'd like some time with the menus. Against his better judgment Tim agrees, if only because he feels a little bad making her stand there while he does this petty squabbling with the Red Hood.

"We're wasting time here."

"You gotta catch me up anyway," Jason says. "Or am I just s'pposed to be helping you find them with my as of yet untapped powers of clairvoyance."

Tim knew Jason was going to make him regret coming to him for help, he just didn't realize it would be this soon.

He plucks one of the laminated menus up off the table, if only to get Jason off his back, and pretends to skim over the list of dinner options. All he really sees are the grimy fingerprints left on the plastic of the lamination.

"So where were they when you lost them?"

"If you tell me to retrace my steps I'm getting up and walking out." It's an empty threat and they both know it. If just walking out was an option, he wouldn't have come to Jason for help in the first place. "I didn't _lose_ them, they were taken."

Jason gives a circular wave of his wrist, a silent encouragement for him to elaborate.

He sighs and slaps the menu back down on the table before him, swapping it out for one of the off-white mugs on the table between them. Diner coffee tastes like shit. It's more watery sludge than actual coffee and it's either scalding hot or disgustingly cold, he always manages to miss the middle area where it's a consumable temperature.

He adds lamely, "They were on patrol. I think."

"That's nice and specific," Jason says. "Where were you?"

"At home."

"Thought you'd be with them. What, you get put on timeout or something?"

"I-" Tim starts defensively. He sighs and admits, "I had homework."

If you ask Tim, keeping the city safe is just a little more worthwhile an endeavor than some reading on how correlation doesn't equal causation for a statistics class he's acing anyway. It wasn't his call though, it was Bruce and Alfred's.

Jason, predictably, laughs at him. "That's adorable."

"I'll show you adora--"

Caroline selects that moment to reappear at the head of their table. She's either blissfully unaware that Tim's about two minutes away from throwing himself across the table at Jason, or that behavior is just standard practice for a diner like this one. She gracefully refills Tim's mug. Asks, "You boys about ready?"

"Can you just leave the pot?" Tim says.

"Sure thing. That it?"

"Yes," Tim says. But Jason answers, just a little louder, "No. He'll have a sandwich."

He feels her attention shift back to him but he's too busy glaring daggers at Jason to return it. She hums. "What kind of sandwich is that, sweetheart? We got pulled pork, chicken salad, club, tuna--"

"Club sounds great," Tim says, if only to get her to stop talking.

This is a major waste of time. He doesn't _need_ a sandwich, what he needs is to be focusing. They don't have any leads, any intel, any way of knowing where Dick and Bruce are or how long they have. What are they even doing here?

Caroline nods. Then, to Jason, "Just the usual for you, hon?"

"That'd be great," Jason says distractedly, like he's only just realizing he's supposed to order something too. "Thanks, Caroline."

She nods as she collects the menus from off the table, letting them know to ask if they need anything else before disappearing once more.

She's barely left before Jason's leaning forward, elbows pressed flat on the table, asking, "Did you go over the communications log from their patrol? B still records all that shit, right?"

"No, I'm completely stupid. Of course I went over the comm log."

"And?"

There's not much of an 'and' to tell actually.

From what he can tell, they had a largely uneventful night. A slow, boring shift does happen on occasion, even to the bats. It's especially not unheard of when it's been snowing like this. A few heavy-hitters have been known to take advantage of no one wanting to go out in the cold to pull elaborate stunts or heists or what have you, but for the most part things will be pretty quiet the first few nights. Even supervillains get cold.

They brought a single runaway to a shelter they know they can trust. Dick literally helped an old woman get her cat down from a tree. Bruce prevented a mugging, then went ghost for about an hour so he could have a heart to heart with the would-be mugger over McDonald's and hot coffee. They didn't even have to alert the GCPD over anything once all night.

"And it goes silent after they agree to meet up and head back to the Cave."

"There's nothing off before then? To hint they were in trouble?"

"Nothing."

Jason frowns into the depths of his coffee mug, drumming his fingers over the table-top just out of sync with the oldies playing over the radio. "Where were they s'pposed to meet up?"

"Robinson Park."

"I take it you already snooped around."

"Sure did."

Tim's been up and down the whole park, as well as over any footage the nearby security cameras in the area might have picked up. There's a blurry shot from a camera across the street that captured them meeting up, the Batmobile driving off from the south side of the park. There's nothing indicating where they went after that though.

Tim tells him as much after downing the last half of his coffee cup with the slightest of grimaces. He's never loved the way the grounds tend accumulate at the bottom of diner mugs.

"You've been drinking too much of B's fancy rich boy coffee." For the sake of staying on topic, Tim's going to ignore that. His knee bumps the underside of the table top. Jason shakes his head and says, "Scratch that, you've been drinking too much coffee period."

Sure. Forget that Jason's already on his third cup, too. And that's not counting however much he's had from that thermos he had with him on the rooftop. Tim rolls his eyes as he slumps lower in his seat, murmuring something under his breath about stones and people in glass houses.

In truth, all the bouncing his leg's been doing has more to do with nerves than caffeine. Every second he spends not finding Bruce and Dick is a second he's letting them down. And they're the best of the best, which means for someone to have gotten the drop on them at all it has to be bad. Tim's not overcaffeinated, he's worried.

It's not a correction he wants to admit too, however. Not in front of Jason anyway.

Jason raises a hand, nodding at something just over Tim's shoulder. With a faux sort of charm to his grin he calls, "'Scuse me, Caroline? Can we get a glass of water over here for the kid?"

"I'm not a kid," Tim grouses. Admittedly somewhat childishly. "Quit patronizing me."

Caroline appears just then to place a glass of water in front of Tim with a smile and a polite reminder their food should be right out.

Tim heaves a steadying breath and downs the glass of water in two quick gulps before setting it pointedly back down at the end of the table. It's hardly the big 'fuck you' he means for it to be.

Jason's smirk gives way to something uncharacteristically softer. "Y'okay?"

And really, if what Tim wanted was to be coddled he certainly wouldn't have come to Jason Todd of all people.

"We're not," Tim says, holding a palm up and shaking his head. "We're not doing that."

A scoff, verging on amused. "Doing what?"

"Look you said it yourself, we're not family. You don't need to act like you care, and I'll return the favor. Okay?"

For one thing, it's a major waste of both their time. Tim's never had any illusions that he and Jason are even friends, let alone brothers, and he's pretty sure that's a two way street. They don't need to start acting like it now just because they're working together. If they can just keep things reasonably, professionally civil he'll take it.

Jason bristles slightly, that faint trace of amusement fading away again.

"Yeah. Sounds good to me."

Before Tim can embarrass himself by apologizing for his attitude or something Caroline's back at the table. "Club sandwich," she says, setting the plates on the table before them, "And a philly cheesesteak. You boys holler if you need anything else, alright?"

"Thank you," Jason says dully.

Tim echoes, "Thank you, ma'am."

Then she's gone again.

They sit there in stubborn silence for a second or two, at a sort of a standoff. Finally Tim caves and picks up one of the sandwich halves off his plate. It's only after he's taken a bite that Jason gives a small nod and continues on topic, "B-man working any cases at the moment?"

Tim shakes his head.

He can only hope it doesn't show on his face when he realizes how hungry he actually was.

Jason's quiet a second, thinking. And Tim knows he asked Jason for help, but he's got no clue what possibilities he thinks he's gonna come up with that Tim hasn't already considered.

"Good news is, they're probably fine," Jason says easily. "For now, at least."

That's the lamest assurance Tim's ever heard. As if. Dick and Bruce could both be dead right now for all they know.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, if _I_ had a big enough beef with Batman to want him dead, I'd make sure Gotham knew about it. I wouldn't shanghai him off to who the fuck knows where just to kill him," he says, just a little too matter of fact. "And I certainly wouldn't risk taking him somewhere and him getting loose, y'know? Not unless I really needed something from him."

"What, like information?"

A noncommittal shrug.

He can't argue with his logic actually. Bruce's enemies tend to want to make a statement, they have that in common. Which means Jason's right, at the very least Dick and Bruce should still be alive. For how long, exactly, is a different matter entirely.

Tim frowns. "Should I be worried about how well you've thought this through?"

"You forget who you're talking to?"

Right. That. Of course Jason's thought it through. His disturbingly intimate knowledge about how Gotham's villains think isn't hypothetical; he gave it the old college try himself not too long ago.

"I'm just trying not to think about it."

"Hey, let's not forget who asked who for help here."

"So someone wants information from Batman and Nightwing," Tim says bluntly, moving on. "What do they know?"

Mostly he's thinking out loud.

Between the two of them, it's not likely Jason will have the answer. It's not like Jason actually talks to any of them to know what they've been working on or what information they have.

Jason snorts. "Not much."

He graces that with a blatantly fake laugh. Not that his lack of amusement seems to do much to deter Jason at all.

"This is how you're gonna help me? A sandwich and some stupid one-liners?"

"Hey now, I also do wisecracks."

"Forget it," Tim says, already half out of his seat, "I don't know why I thought--I'll find them myself. Thanks for dinner."

Jason sighs, blocking Tim's route out of the booth by propping a foot up on the bench. All Tim technically has to do is step over it, but it slows him down a second.

"Sit back down, I'll pay attention," Jason says, toeing a delicate line between earnest and indifferent. He nods towards Tim's half-finished plate, "C'mon. I don't want you working this one by yourself."

Tim scowls, despite sitting back down. "I told you--"

"To not pretend I care, I got it." And to his credit it sounds like he means that. "But if I let you go out alone and get hurt, not only will I never hear the end of that, it'll also be on me to save all three of your incompetent asses by myself. I'm only looking out for my own interests here, trust me."

"Fine." Even if Tim doesn't trust him half as far as he can throw him.

"Good," Jason says, refilling his own hypocritical coffee cup. "You find the Batmobile?"

Not for lack of trying, but, "No. Weather's been interfering with the signal."

He hasn't been able to get a single ping off the homing beacon.

It doesn't seem likely the car's anywhere visible to the public. There are fewer people outside than normal thanks to the snow sure, but the streets aren't exactly empty. If someone saw the Batmobile it would've appeared on social media at the very least. Tim can't find anything.

Jason shoots a look out the diner windows and Tim follows suit.

"It's lightened up since this morning. Any chance you'll get a better signal now?"

He somewhat resents the implication that he hasn't thought to check since the first time the snow blocked his signal. But, seeing as he hasn't checked since at least mid-noon, he resents the implication silently.

He pulls up the hidden phone embedded in his left gauntlet, opening it up to the tracking screen. The little green arm sweeps agonizingly slowly around the grid, the faint beeps mocking him as the radar fails to pick anything up. That is, until a single red blip appears just at the edge of the screen. That's the Batmobile.

"We got it," Tim says, already up and out of his seat again.

"My bike's parked around the corner," Jason says, getting to his feet with almost as much haste as Tim. He takes a second to drop some cash on the tabletop to cover the food and a tip, then shoulders his rifle case once more and starts for the door. "Where to, kid?"

"Gotham Harbor."

* * *

Tim's always known Jason was a maniac, so it stands to reason he would drive like one. (And that's coming from someone used to rocketing down the streets of Gotham in the fucking Batmobile, which is saying something.) It's far from a critique, though. They make it to the harbor in record time. And Jason can never ever know this but it's kind of weirdly fun.

The tracker takes them to an ostensibly abandoned section of the docks. A remnant from old Gotham, these piers were shut down years ago for being unstable and never updated.

They're actually surprisingly sturdy, just not in a way that's up to code. Something about the moorings and new O.S.H.A regulations. Anyway, it makes them into a prime spot for any traders in Gotham selling to a less than perfectly legal market. Tim knows this area well.

"Further up this way," Tim says, double-checking the radar blip before looking to the docks up ahead of them.

Which is when Jason jerks the bike to abruptly to the side, the rear half of the bike drifting outwards so far it nearly whips Tim right off. His grip tightens instinctively around Jason's sides, a second too late it seems because they're already slowing down. "Sorry," Jason says without a hint of remorse. "You'll thank me in a second."

With that, he pulls the bike to a stop and flips the kickstand out.

A thin film of ice crunches beneath their feet as they hop down to the ground.

"Thank you?" Tim echoes skeptically. "For what, trying to throw me into the harbor?"

"Funny you should mention that," Jason says.

He doesn't elaborate beyond that, and Tim's not going to give him the satisfaction of asking. But some of his irritation does give way to curiosity as Jason paces up to the spot where he made the turn, crouching down to brush some of the snow out of the way.

The cloud of fog that's descended on them keeps him from seeing anything too far ahead, so Tim turns his attention to the ground as he approaches whatever it is Jason thinks he's found.

Any tracks that might've been left behind last night have been lost to the storm, that much is obvious.

"Are those-"

"-Caltrops," Jason concludes, plucking one up out of the snow. He taps the point twice with an index finger before tossing the spike to Tim. "Tactical grade. Here, take a look."

Tim catches it without really thinking. He glances down to investigate the object in his palm with a slight frown.

"How'd you even know these were there?"

"I didn't," Jason says with a shrug. He points at something just ahead of them and adds, "But you ever know the old man to just swerve into the harbor for no reason?"

He's got to squint through the fog to see it, but sure enough, there's a Batmobile sized chunk missing from the metal railing lining the docks. He feels a little less inclined to mock Jason's driving now, he's certainly more alert to their surroundings than Tim was giving him credit for.

Which is a damn good thing, because the Batmobile's equipped to handle a crash like that. A motorcycle, not so much.

"I didn't think they made spikes sturdy enough to get through the Batmobile's tires."

"Neither did I." Jason hums, stooping to pick another one up to inspect it. He adds around a chuckle, "Awesome. I gotta find out where this guy gets his gear."

"Can you not sound so excited about this?"

He just gives an exasperated huff and tosses the caltrop leisurely over his shoulder.

Tim edges carefully closer to the collapsed segment of the railing. The ice makes the ground slippery and he's not keen on following the car's path into the water just yet.

He runs the scenario out in his head.

This area's certainly not the standard route back to the Cave, which means something else must've diverted their path. More than likely, it was a deliberate decoy on their as of yet unknown opponent's part. Lay the trap and draw them in. But they hit the water and...then what?

There's some scraping at the edges of one of the more rickety planks making up the ground beneath them that could indicate a grappling hook was used. The markings only seem to point to one person pulling himself out, but Tim doesn't see either of them leaving without the other, which means presumably Dick and Bruce both made it out of the water. Unless the grappling hook belongs to the third party?

Jason barks from some ways behind him, "Hey! Back it up, half-pint. I'm not diving in after you when you go for an unexpected swim."

"Do I look like an idiot to you?"

"I mean, as long as you're asking..."

"Shut up." He steps back from the railing to scan the rest of the docks for anything important.

He detects three points of exit by vehicle. More by foot, but it doesn't seem likely someone dragging Batman and Nightwing in tow would be traveling by foot. They could've taken a boat maybe. The weather, at the very least, eliminates the option of any form of aircraft.

After a moment's consideration, he asks aloud, "Where would they go from here?"

"Fuck if I know," Jason says, which is just incredibly helpful. Isn't Tim glad he thought to ask Jason's assistance with this one? Then, "But I think I know someone who might."

Tim blinks. "Who?"

"You know how these docks aren't historically used for the most...legal of purposes?"

"Yeah. And?"

"And lucky for us, I got friends in low places," Jason says, already starting back for the bike.

He's so going to regret asking, he can already feel it. "What does that mean, Hood?"

"Means I got a friend who's been working these docks awhile. And the great thing about this friend is, he's the sort that asks way too many questions for his own good."

"Yeah, but what're the odds he saw this?" Tim jabs a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the gap in the railing.

This wasn't a random attack, it was planned out. Stands to reason whoever's responsible would've made sure the docks were empty before they went through with it. Witnesses were loose ends.

"Believe me," Jason says easily. "Nothing happens on this pier that Geezer Joe doesn't know about."

Tim nearly slips on the ice he's so distracted by that response. Somewhat torn between disbelief and a laugh, he says, "Your friend's name is _Geezer Joe?"_

"I didn't pick the name. Pretty sure you picked Red fucking Robin though, so I'd be careful making fun of someone else's alias, I were you. Now you coming or what?"


	3. and i pray to blades of grass / to find forgiveness in the weeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from danny schmidt's 'this too shall pass'

It takes him a second after he wakes to realize the vaguely unsettling thrumming sound isn't coming just from the back of his aching skull, but somewhere above. Takes him another second to recognize that's not normal before the rest of his brain wakes up enough to start to get concerned.

He can't see anything to get a grasp on his surroundings. Going by the faint pressure of a cloth against his brow and the bridge of his nose, he's probably been blindfolded.

"Wha' h'ppen?" Dick says aloud, but he's not expecting much of an answer.

As of the moment, the only sound is the faint _drip-plop_ of a leaky pipe somewhere, and the aforementioned rumbling up top. Those factors combined with the less than pleasant smell keeping him company probably mean a sewer tunnel. It's not the most original of places to spirit someone off to in Gotham, but hey, that at least means he's got a semi-decent map of the tunnels in his head already.

He's answered, though, by a faint shuffling somewhere just in front of him.

"Batman?"

He was with Bruce before he woke up here, he's the most likely option. Him or whoever lay those spikes in the road anyway. But the lack of any dramatic monologuing or cliché's about how he's finally awake lead him to believe it's not an enemy.

Which is why, when he's not met with much of a response at all, his concern spikes.

He stretches one leg out in front of him until it kicks something that feels reasonably like a person. It's met with an irritable grumble that's familiar enough by now to confirm, "Batman. Why aren't you talking to me? Y'okay?"

There's a muffled response, not quite words but a blocked attempt at them.

He's probably gagged. Crap, there goes all the riveting trapped in a sewer tunnel talk he had to look forward to.

Dick sighs and slumps back against the wall behind him. It's made of concrete, he can determine that much. And it doesn't retain heat well. The chill seeps through the back of skull where his head presses against the wall, sending a shiver down his spine. But it's the scuttering of what's probably a rat in the distance that reminds him of the likely less than sanitary nature of their surroundings and has him lifting his head again.

"Did you know those guys?" Dick asks. "Back at the docks?"

Bruce answers with a noncommittal grunt, which is less than informative. Only marginally more helpful is Bruce's tapping, which Dick recognizes as tap code in time to catch the letters _T - S - U - R - E._ Dick translates it as 'Not sure.' Cool. Great.

In that case, it might be nice if they can get out of here before they get a chance to learn who these people are or what they want. He's sure those are answers he'll appreciate having just a little more if he can get them without his wrists tied behind his back, after all. So rarely in Dick's career has someone knocked him out and taken him to some obscure underground tunnel just for a friendly chat. (Excepting that one instance with Harley Quinn and an ill-advised surprise birthday party. He still doesn't know who told her his birthday, and besides, he didn't trust the cake enough to eat any so it's still a bust in Dick's opinion. Anyway.)

"Okay," Dick says, thinking aloud. "Did they blindfold you too?"

_N - O._

It's a weird call on their captor's part, but definitely something they can work with. He nods and continues, "We're underground, right?"

_Y - E - S._

"You know where?" He's fairly certain, by the rats and the way his voice echoes, they're in a tunnel of some sort. Might or might not be the sewers. Either way, between the two of them they've spent plenty of time in the hamster maze below Gotham. "Have you been here before?"

_N - O._

Perfect.

He's got a complaint ready for how ineffective this particular method of communication is, what with the short and cryptic responses being all it really allows for, when he shrugs and figures it's not that different from talking to Bruce normally. Still, he's sure it's going to get old pretty quick.

 _O - N - E - E - X - I -_ _T._ This, punctuated by another faint shuffling noise. Whatever Bruce is doing, it startles a few rats enough to prompt some more scuttling and a distant squeak. The next message he taps out, _R - U - H - U - R - T._

That one throws him for a second. "Are we doing text speak now?"

He can picture the eye roll well enough. _F - A - S -_

"Faster, got it," Dick interrupts, nodding and leaning back against the wall once more.

It takes him a second to inventory. Up until Bruce asked, Dick's attention has been so focused on their surroundings that he hasn't stopped to wonder about himself. Maybe that's a good thing. If he were hurt to the point of major injury he doubts he'd be able to ignore it so easily.

There's the dull ache at the back of his head. That's pretty standard for getting hit over the head with blunt objects though, and if anything it seems to be fading. When he shifts his shoulders there's a familiar flare of discomfort that probably means he managed to dislocate a rib. Which sucks, he hasn't had one of those since a trapeze incident when he was like twelve.

But there's nothing pressing, and nothing that would get in the way of fighting their way out of here if they have to, so he answers lightly, "Yeah, I'm good. How 'bout you?"

_O - K._

Seeing as his own answer wasn't totally honest, he's not sure how reliable Bruce's should be.

He's about to ask about that exit Bruce was trying to tell him about when there's a crackle of static from somewhere to his left. Dick's head whips around towards the noise on instinct alone, it's not like he can see it at the moment. Bruce supplies, _T - V._

"You two have already got to talking," a tinny voice announces, with a faint hint of approval, "That's impressive. What is that, morse code?"

If they think it's morse, Dick won't bother correcting them. That just means he and Bruce can keep talking even with people listening in.

"What can I say? We like to be prepared."

"That's fine. I wanted you to be able to communicate."

He's fairly sure whoever's talking to them is using a voice modulator of some sort. That or it's a faulty speaker system creating the distortion, it's accompanied by an indistinct crackle beneath the voice every few words.

"So what can we call you?"

"Figures. I didn't think you'd recognize me," the voice says lightly.

"Might help if I could see your face."

In answer, Bruce spells out the single word 'helmet.' Dick frowns.

Whoever this is, it sounds like they want to be recognized. Why show their face on a monitor only to mask it? That is, beyond the reason Dick suspects that motivates everyone else in this city, which is just for the sheer drama of it.

Dick asks conversationally, "So we've met before?"

"I'll explain in a minute," comes the casual response. "First I wanna talk about you and Batman."

* * *

The snow's already beginning to pick up again by the time they make it to Geezer Joe's place. It's not the crappiest apartment complex Jason's ever set foot in, but that's not saying a whole lot. He's pretty sure the way the Replacement's nose scrunches up just on the front step says a fair bit more. He pats the kid's shoulder as he ducks through the door with a friendly reminder, "Watch your step. Place is crawling with roaches."

"Forget roaches," Tim says, falling into step at his side as they approach the right stairwell. "I think that's a dead possum."

"Huh. What d'ya know, that is a possum."

They make pretty quick work of the stairs. He takes them up an extra flight just to make sure they weren't followed, then they double back down through the left stairwell.

Stealth precautions aside, Jason pounds on Joe's door loud enough to wake up half the hall when they get there. It's the only way the bastard answers without a meeting set up. He calls by way of greeting, "Hey! It's me. We gotta talk."

No answer. Jerk.

"I wouldn't open the door for you either."

"Shut up."

He leans one shoulder against the wall, quirking an eyebrow to add, "Thought you said this was a friend?"

Jason makes a point of ignoring him.

"Geezer," he barks, with another impatient knock at the door. "It's important you bastard."

There's a faint clicking just behind the door, a lock sliding out of place. The security chain is still latched shut, but the door slips open about an inch or so. Joe sounds a bit like they just woke him up when, voice gruffer than usual and words somehow crankier, "I told you I'd call if the clown had any more shipments in, Red."

"This isn't about him."

"Sure," Joe says with a dismissive scoff. "Whatever it _is_ about, what're you thinkin' showing up at my front fuckin' door to hound me 'bout it now? You tryna get me killed?"

"Thinking," Tim provides, "Isn't really his strong suit."

Jason smacks him upside the back of the head, sidestepping out of the way just a second too late when the kid retaliates with a light jab to his shoulder. Joe clears his throat pointedly. Asks with an audible frown, "That who I think it is?"

"If it is, how long do you wanna risk the both of us standing on your front step for someone to see?"

The Replacement's got a point.

He rests an elbow on the kid's shoulder and agrees, "Not a good look, Joe."

The door swings closed with a passive aggressive _clunk_ before reopening a second later with the security chain gone. Geezer Joe, a short man, younger than his name would suggest but not exactly on the youthful side either, steps to the side for them to come in. Jason rolls his eyes as Joe peers out into the hallway to check for any witnesses before shutting the door behind them. He of little faith.

"I ever tell you," Joe says, crossing towards the kitchen and swinging the fridge door open. "You're a real shitty friend?"

"Yeah, once or twice," Jason says around a laugh. "We need information."

"Always do."

And, as far as the docks are concerned, Joe's the best place to get it.

He doesn't bother closing the refrigerator door behind him before returning to the living room, beer bottle in hand. Jason sighs as he pulls his helmet off. Joe's a good deal less helpful on the nights he's been drinking.

As Joe lowers himself onto the sofa and props his feet up on the coffee table, Jason subtly ducks into the kitchen to close the refrigerator door.

Joe addresses Tim casually, "Your pal here ever tell you 'bout the time I had to drag his ass outta the harbor?"

Jason throws his head back and groans. "Not the time, Joe."

"We're in a bit of a hurry," Tim says tonelessly.

"Yeah," Joe says, using his teeth to pop the cap off his beer in a way that has the kid suppressing a grimace. He indicates Tim with a nod. "You're here. I'm guessin' this is about Batman and Nightwing."

"What do you know?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Not much. What're you two workin' together for, anyway? I didn't think you were what you'd call friendly."

"We're not," Jason says, only moderately annoyed to find Tim agreeing simultaneously, "We're not."

Jason disregards the empty seats scattered around the apartment in favor of perching at the edge of the coffee table. The fact that he has to smack Joe's feet out of the way to do so goes unremarked upon, but Joe's glare does sharpen a bit when Jason blocks his hand from grabbing for the beer on the table.

"Talk now. Drink later."

"Some guy in a bad costume buried those spikes in the snow," Joe says, jerking his arm loose from Jason's grip and leaning back with a reluctant sigh. "Real steampunk lookin' prick. I've seen him skulking 'round the docks the past month or so."

He glances back at Tim, still hovering at the edge of the room, arms crossed. Either too eager to get the intel and go to bother sitting down or unwilling to touch anything in this apartment he doesn't have to. Jason can't say he blames him either way.

"Sound like anyone you know, kid?"

A skeptical hum. "Not anyone outside of Arkham at the moment."

"You sure 'bout that?"

He doesn't grace that with a response. Turning instead to Joe to prompt, "What else did you see?"

While Joe's distracted with the explanation, Jason paces away from the coffee table to check for anything they need to worry about out the window. The streets remain reasonably empty, a pizza delivery car pulling up across the street but little else. He lets out a breath and turns to idly pluck a jacket up off the floor, folding it to drape over the back of an armchair.

Tim gives him a funny look. One he doesn't bother trying to decipher as he sits back down on the arm of the chair.

It doesn't seem like Joe knows a whole helluva lot about this 'steampunk looking prick' other than that he's been staking out the docks. But what Joe does have is photographs of the guy laying the spikes, and he claims to have seen the man and a small group of hired muscle wresting Bruce and Dick out of the water before they were loaded onto a small boat.

"Any idea where they went from there?"

Another shrug.

"The boat," Tim prompts. "Was it privately owned? You get a photo of that?"

"Might have one someplace," Joe says vaguely, shuffling through the stack of images he's spread out across the coffee table for them.

Jason huffs and flicks the one he's been looking over--a candid of two of those thugs loitering at the rail of the docks--back onto the surface of the table. It's not very informative. They're just your average Gotham City goons. They'll work for anyone who pays, and their skills are hardly specific enough to make them traceable.

That does mean there must've been a pretty solid plan behind this. No way are Dick or Bruce taken by a group of average thugs without there being someone intelligent pulling their strings.

"That all you got for us?" Jason challenges, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

He hasn't decided whether it's an accusation yet or not, but Joe reads it as one. Tells him a little too defensively, "Last I heard you hated the Bats. Why d'ya care what messes they get into?"

"Cuz I do."

"Since when?"

He forgets sometimes, how often a nosey informant can outweigh their usefulness with their nosiness.

Joe doesn't know who the Bats are to him. But unlike most of the people in Jason's life right now, Joe doesn't only know what Jason lets him know either. He likes to ask questions and when he pulled Jason out of that aforementioned harbor a few years back, Jason was just delirious enough from blood loss to answer a few.

He might not have the full story, but he does know where _that_ scar on Jason's neck comes from. Joe's the only person Jason's told anything about it. Only seems fair seeing as Joe's the one that stitched it up.

That doesn't mean Jason trusts him. Not remotely.

"I'm paying him," Tim says from the seat he finally condescended to take at the ottoman at the other end of the table.

Joe glances back and forth between them for a second. It's the first instance Jason's been glad Joe's been drinking, because that's the only reason he even buys that answer.

With a sigh, Joe rifles through his couch cushions a second before finding his cell phone. He opens it up to one page or other before sliding it across the table towards the kid. Saying, "I did get this."

Jason gets up, pacing around to the other end of the table. He peers over Tim's shoulder to see a somewhat blurred photograph of a boat. More specifically, a Hull Identification Number. They can get a name from that, presuming the boat hasn't been stolen. It's exactly what they need to find the guy who nabbed Bruce and Dick.

He snatches the phone up from the table to get a closer look and Tim swats at his elbow in protest.

"Lead with this next time, Joe. Did you not fucking want me to find them?"

That one, he's already decided, is an accusation. So it's good Joe reads it as one.

"I wanted to know why ya were lookin' first," he says, not half as defensive as he should be. But he must figure out that's not an acceptable answer because he puts his palms up in a show of surrender, adds, "Bat Trouble ain't the sorta trouble you normally go lookin' for, Red. I was curious."

"You ain't careful that curiosity's gonna get you hurt one day, Joe."

Of course, the underlying threat to that warning goes right over his head. That or he deliberately ignores it. He shrugs and says, "'S what I keep you around for. Right?"

Jason huffs, clicking the screen off as he buries Joe's phone in his jacket pocket and starts for the door. On the way out he snags the half-empty beer bottle off the coffee table, to a myriad of angry murmurings.

"Tweetie bird, we got what we needed. Grab the photos, let's go."

Tim nods. He seems more than eager to sweep the photographs into a neat little stack and make their exit. One of the roaches skitters, unnoticed, across the toe of the kid's boot as he starts for the door.

He steps out of the way for Tim to slip past him into the hallway. Before following, he jabs an index finger in Joe's direction and says, "You better fucking call me if you hear anything else, got it?"

"How can I? You're takin' my phone, asshole."

"Figure it out." The slam of a door punctuates the order.

He pointedly ignores the quirked eyebrow Tim gives him, which seems a little too similar to a face he used to get from Dick, brushing past him to start down the hall. On their way out, he pours the remainder of the beer out in the pot of a half dead already plant at the opening of the stairwell.

* * *

"You've got an unusual definition of the word friend," Tim remarks flatly once they're back outside in the god damn snow.

In place of deigning that with a response, Jason passes the phone back over to Tim. Sure he could've just texted the photo to himself or memorized the HIN or something, but if Joe's gonna waste his time the least he can do is return the favor.

Tim feeds the number to Alfred over the comms to be run through the Batcomputer--when they find Bruce, Jason so has to have another word with him about that overwhelmingly creative naming system. But their next step won't be clear until they get the answer on who owns that boat. In the meantime, he retrieves the thermos from where he left it with his bike.

He unscrews the lid and pours some coffee out into it, holding it out in offering to Tim. Maybe he's going to regret giving the kid more caffeine, but the coffee's still hot and a frozen Robin is no good to him.

That funny look is back, but Tim accepts the offering.

"You're paying me, huh?" Jason quips as Tim sips at the coffee.

"I got the impression you didn't wanna tell him how you're really connected to B."

"Ain't much to tell." Ain't much of a connection. Especially not these days.

That said, whatever connection there used to be is better left buried. Palling around with the Bat Brigade doesn't win you a whole lotta favors on his side of the tracks.

Tim gives a sullen sort of grumble. Asks, "How long's Geezer been giving you updates on the Joker?"

"Oh about a week since none of your fucking business."

There's a certain resignation in Tim's sigh that says he was probably expecting exactly that answer. He moves on to the question he really wants to know, "Can we trust his intel on this?"

"Never trust anyone. Hasn't Batman taught you that yet?" Jason rocks back on his heels, idly rubbing his hands together to warm them a bit. Continues, "But I trust he knows what happens to him if he lies to me, which isn't gonna be pretty, so that's about the same. Intel's reliable."

"Next time just say yes."

Jason scoffs. "Okay. Yes."

Tim hums skeptically, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Whether that's the cold or his restless energy is anyone's guess. But he finishes off the coffee before passing the lid back over to Jason, saying offhandedly, "Trust works better than fear. _That's_ what Batman taught me, Jason."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

But the kid's already walking away from him, tapping a hand to his ear piece before addressing the comms, "Hey, do you have a registration for that boat yet?"


	4. i was just a kid who grew up strong enough / to pick this armor up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's shorter than i planned for, sorry lol. i've got a term paper and two essays coming up, so i thought i'd split it into two to make sure i have an update reasonably quick if i'm too busy to write a full chapter this week
> 
> chapter title from 'eight' by sleeping at last  
> (unrelated but jason's an enneagram eight, convincemeimwrong.jpeg)

The name on the registration is Natalie Anders. Which isn't particularly meaningful because, as luck would have it, the boat was reported stolen five days ago.

"Okay," Tim says. "So maybe we talk to Natalie?"

"To what end?"

"Maybe there's something she can tell us about the thief."

A skeptical hum. "Something not in the statement in the GCPD database, you mean?"

Alfred gave them the highlights from the police report on the boat theft when he gave them the name. Nothing in the statement stands out as anything helpful. She didn't witness the theft and she can't pinpoint a time when the boat would've been taken. Jason says it's a miracle the cops even bothered taking her statement at all. ("It's a small fishing boat, it's not like she's one of the yacht owners lining their pockets." "You're kind of a cynic, anyone ever tell you that?")

Point is, Jason's probably right. Talking to her is probably a longshot. But, "Maybe there's something not in the statement."

"Sure, I bet she found the thief's wallet at the pier, I.D. and all. She just, y'know, left that part out for the guys who're supposed to get her shit back for her."

"You just said the cops probably aren't even looking."

"Natalie doesn't know that."

Tim sighs. "Do you have anything actually useful to contribute?"

"Do you?"

They're not getting anywhere with this any time soon.

The dead ends are admittedly not doing much for Tim's own attitude either, but his is at least an attitude born of frustration. Jason just doesn't seem to care. Or at the very least he's content to let Tim believe he doesn't care. Either way it's got about the same effect on Tim's stress-shortened temper. And they're not doing Bruce or Dick any favors by going in circles like this.

He pinches his nose and takes in a deep breath. He can fight with Jason all he wants after their family is safe.

A beat of silence passes.

Jason scoffs, "Here I thought you were s'pposed to be the smart one."

"Okay, you know what?"

He's lighting a cigarette when Tim rounds on him, and the fact that he seems more amused than anything else doesn't do much to keep Tim from throwing the punch he so wants to. Jason shrugs. Says, "No. What?"

Honestly, Tim didn't have a sentiment prepared beyond that.

With a huff he turns and paces a few steps away. In the short time they've been out front of the apartment complex, another three inches of snow have piled up on the sidewalks. His teeth are going to start chattering soon, and this isn't exactly how he saw his weekend going to say the least. Gotham hasn't had a storm this bad in years, everyone in their right mind is hiding away inside. And here he is getting absolutely nowhere on a case with the Red fucking Hood.

But for Tim to be stuck out in the storm with Jason, Jason's also got to be out in the storm with him. That makes even less sense somehow.

"You could at least act worried about what happens to them."

Jason breaths smoke in his direction. He's standing far enough away it's dissipated into the wind before it can reach, but he bristles even still. Jason challenges, "You forget the part where you told me not to bother acting like I care or is this snow just freezing your brain?"

"I meant about me! Not them."

"It's sort of a package deal these days though, ain't it."

He lazily flicks some ash off the end of his cigarette, as if he couldn't be less interested in this conversation. As if what happens to Bruce and Dick is inconsequential either way. It's funny, he's seen Jason more outwardly invested in the lives of total strangers. And by funny he means infuriating and ridiculous.

"If I'm just some snotnose kid that replaced you that's fine. But Bruce? He took you in, he gave you a _home._ Dick's your brother. Doesn't that mean _anything_ to you?"

A small shrug. "Why should it?"

"Why?" Tim echoes incredulously.

"It doesn't mean anything to them," he says, taking another drag from the cigarette, "Why should it matter to me?"

"So you actually don't give a shit?"

Jason frowns like there's a bad smell in the air. Shakes his head and corrects, "I didn't say that."

There's not enough time to press for a less cryptic response before Jason's dropping the cigarette, grinding the already dying spark out with the toe of a tactical boot, and starting back over towards the bike. Tim doesn't know where he thinks they're going exactly, but he already finds himself following.

"We need to figure out our next move," Jason says, plucking his helmet up from the bike seat. "So what d'you got, Jr. Detective?"

It's not half as patronizing as it should be coming from him. But regardless, Tim's still mad. And he still needs to think.

Thinking's an awful lot easier when he's not mad.

It's probably true that talking to Natalie won't reveal anything that they can use. If the boat is a dead end though then he's not sure where else they're supposed to look. This whole case has been stumbling block after stumbling block and sure he's only been looking for about a day, but that's a day too long. He's no closer to finding Bruce or Dick than he was when he realized they were missing.

Maybe it's the lack of success that's pissing him off more than Jason, but he can't get mad at a mystery. He can get mad at a man.

"Why are you even helping me?"

Jason doesn't miss a beat. "You asked."

There's the patronization he was expecting before.

"You're not doing it for me." That, he's already certain of.

And it's not a question but Jason confirms all the same, "Nope."

"Family apparently means jack shit," he continues, and Jason doesn't argue with that one either. "And I'm not actually paying you. So what are you doing here?"

"What, it matters all of a sudden? I'm helping. That's enough."

"No. It's not."

Tim's self-aware enough to know insisting on an answer is at least a little petty. It's also practical. If Jason's loyalties are divided that creates something unpredictable in the field. If they're going to work together, really work together, he at least needs to be able to trust Jason until this mission is over.

He also just doesn't like how difficult it is to get a read on Jason.

He's cleaning up part of the mess in Joe's apartment like it's second nature to help one instant, then threatening Joe without a trace of uncertainty the next. Offering Tim warm coffee from his own thermos when they step into the cold, then looking him in the eye and asking _why_ it should matter that Bruce and Dick are his family.

It's like Jason's got this guard dog instinct driving him but he can't make his mind up what it is that he's guarding. Just that he won't give it up without a fight.

Or maybe Tim's just tired and stressed and looking way too much into it. He shakes his head. He can't trust Jason's intentions, they too often lead to harm and that's all he really needs to know this instant.

"You're worse than Joe," Jason grumbles irritably. He starts to say something more then backtracks. Says, "I don't have to fucking explain myself to you, alright kid?"

"You also don't have to be here, but here you are."

"And you are being damn ungrateful."

"I'd be grateful to get an honest answer for once."

Jason gives an aggravated huff and strides a step back over to Tim, who instinctively takes a single step back.

He has no reason to believe Jason intends to hurt him, and he doesn't. But he's also trained to react to threats, and an angry Red Hood advancing on someone usually doesn't end well for them, even when he's not wearing the helmet. And it's been a long time since he was a little kid, but historically accusations of ungratefulness have preceded trouble for him.

It's not even fear, just a single step back. Tim only realizes he does it when Jason's mask of anger momentarily flickers.

"Why do you really wanna know?" Jason says, like he knows the answer. Which is a feat, because Tim's not sure he knows the answer himself. "Just say it."

"I don't trust you."

It's an oversimplification to be sure but it comes too easy to be a mistruth.

"Good."

Except if there was any actual reason not to trust Jason's involvement with this case in specific, Jason would just lie. He wouldn't be willing to draw the suspicion of a non-answer if he was up to anything. There's something else.

Tim hates saying it but, "I need your help here, Jason."

"That's what I'm trying to fucking do."

"We have to be a team to get them back," he presses. "Not just two people working together."

Maybe Jason prefers to work alone these days, but he's been part of a team before. He knows what Tim's really saying. Tim knows that he knows because he doesn't make one quip about how the definition of a team is people working together. He rocks back a step and says, "Fuck. Would you believe it's just an easy opportunity to prove I'm better than them?"

Honestly? Probably, yes. If he'd just said that upfront.

"No."

"Weaselly little shit."

Tim rolls his eyes.

Jason tilts his head towards the sky, where at the least the snowfall is beginning to slow once more. Although there's no telling how long this break will be. It's been falling on and off all day. He lets out a breath and some of the tension in his form with it.

"Not that it matters," Jason says, dropping his head back to look at Tim. "But maybe I just know what it's like, is all."

He blinks. "What what's like?"

"What d'you think?" He shakes his head as leans back against a wall of graffitied brick. Explains around a sigh, "You sit alone in the dark long enough you start to wonder whether anyone's looking. Thinking it feels like a betrayal, but the longer you wait the more you believe it. And once you believe it, you gotta ask yourself why no one's coming."

The matter of fact tone in which he addresses it is unsettling. But Tim's grateful. He has a feeling he'd be even less equipped to handle a genuine emotion from Jason.

"What's the answer?"

He doesn't know why he asks. Maybe it's just the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe not. He can't really tell if Jason still believes it, whatever answer he came up with back then.

"That it's your fault," Jason says, like it's the obvious answer. He looks down at the face of the helmet he's holding with a thoughtful hum. "If you were smarter, or less of a fuck up. If you were _better_ maybe you'd be worth fighting for. But you're not."

As much as he tries he can't picture the man before him as a frightened kid, sitting in the dark and terrified no one's going to care what happens to him. He can't picture the man before him terrified of anything at all.

It occurs to him that this impression isn't left on accident.

"Dick and Bruce might be pompous, holier-than-thou assholes but they don't deserve that," Jason concludes, like he's trying to convince more than just Tim. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, offering Tim a flash of a grin and adding, "Plus I just wanna prove I'm better than them."

"Jason."

His tone must give something away because he's only said the one word before Jason pushes away from the wall, expression hardening. "You got your answer. Can we move on?"

Tim stops him walking away with a hand on his shoulder. Jason scowls at it indignantly, like there's something filthy stuck to Tim's palm. But he doesn't pull away from it either, which is what Tim's half expecting.

"I'm glad you told me," Tim says with a small nod.

"You're not gonna try to hug me in front of the cameras are you?"

"What cameras?"

With a disapproving raise of an eyebrow, Jason indicates a security camera on the building behind them. The traffic camera at the intersection by the corner.

Tim follows his pointing with a dawning realization. He punches Jason in the arm without thinking, declaring, "Cameras! Jason you're a genius!"

"I know that. But just so we're on the same page," Jason says, frowning skeptically. "Why am I a genius?"

"There's not a lot of cameras at the pier but there are a couple."

"You didn't check those yet?"

Of course he did.

He's been over the footage they collected that night and the two days before, just in case there was anything useful. And Joe says their little friend has been doing recon for at least a week. It's more telling, then, that whoever it is hasn't shown up on a single camera.

"If their outfit is as bad as Joe says, it'd be pretty tough to miss, don't you think?" Tim says. "But I've been all over the footage, no sign of them."

Jason narrows his eyes with a hint of suspicion. "So you suck at Where's Waldo. What's your point?"

"I'm great at Where's Waldo."

"My bad," Jason answers flatly. "And the point?"

"The point is, for them to not show up in any of the footage, they'd have to know all the cameras' blind-spots."

Which means they have to have been to the pier before in plain clothes. Which means there's going to be some record of them, he and Jason just have to find it.

Jason chews his bottom lip a second. Then, "We go over the week before for anyone out of place. That's one helluva longshot, kid."

"You got a better idea?"

The irritation from a few minutes ago is a phantom in the exchange. Tim only asks because he knows it's the only idea they've got right now. Something Jason knows too.

Jason gives a long, drawn out sigh. Shrugs and slips the helmet back over his head. There's a hint of a chuckle to his voice when he answers, "We're gonna need a computer."

"I know a place."


	5. if history is dead and gone / then how did we get here my god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chap title from klergy's 'start a war'

"First I wanna talk about you and Batman."

Dick cringes inwardly.

Talkative kidnappers are generally great, Dick loves a good monologue. It's a great way to buy time for a dramatic escape. Those are best when said kidnappers want to monologue about themselves though. When their focus is on you there's a lot less you can get away with. Not to mention a personal vendetta never did anything for anyone.

"Well you've certainly got our attention," he says, settling back against the wall with a false air of comfortability. "But a phone call works just as well, y'know."

"He warned me about this. Your sense of humor," the voice answers. "I don't think it's that bad."

Which Bruce answers with, _W - A - I - T._

At least if Bruce is cracking jokes too that means he doesn't deem the threat level too bad. With an easy chuckle, Dick says, "You wound me, B. You don't like my jokes now?"

He gives a muffled scoff that's almost amused. There's a different sense of urgency with the rate he taps out the next response, back on topic.

_H - E_

One of the downsides to a tap code is the lack of any inflection in the words. The voice said someone warned them. Dick can't tell if Bruce is asking a question when he spells out the word, or just trying to guide Dick's attention to the detail. Make sure he doesn't look over it. If it is a question, Dick doesn't have the answer.

He figures he can get away with asking, "Who warned you?"

"It's not important right now. I'd be careful which questions I choose to focus on if I were you. You're asking on borrowed time."

"I'll bite. What question do you want me to ask?"

"First I have one," they say with a small hum. "I read an article in Gotham Gazette awhile back. They had an interview with Bruce Wayne, about being successful in business. Do you read the Gazette?"

Dick tries to keep any outward reaction to a minimum. Bringing Bruce up might be a coincidence.

He gives a one shouldered shrug. "I'm not a big reader, sorry."

"Well Mr. Wayne claims that making it in business isn't all that significant an achievement. An easy stance to take when you inherit your success from someone else, but I digress," they explain, tone a calculated form of casual. "He insists what he's more proud of is his family, they're what matters. I'm just curious, would you agree?"

Of course he does.

But it's more difficult a question to answer when he's not sure of their motives for asking. In these scenarios a question is so often a trap. He's the one they've given words too, which means he's got to pick them carefully.

The longer they talk the clearer it becomes that whoever this is certainly has beef with Bruce. Whether that's separate from their apparent beef with him and Batman or not is tougher to tell. Plenty of people in Gotham hate both Bruce and Batman without ever knowing there's a connection.

No closer to understanding the question behind the question, Dick answers a little uncertainly, "Yeah. I guess."

"What about you, Batman?" There's a beat of silence and then Bruce must nod, because the voice presses on, "Tonight you're going to have a chance to prove it."

Awesome. That's not ominous or foreboding in the slightest.

"Prove it how?"

That one isn't graced with a response. He has a feeling he'll probably know soon enough. The voice continues as if uninterrupted.

"It's funny," they say without a hint of amusement, "I think Bruce Wayne believes that he says, I really do. You too. But when it came down to _my_ family, the Waynes couldn't've cared less. Them and the rest of the Gotham elites. They were perfectly happy to let my family rot in the gutter."

Alright maybe that beef is older than Bruce. That's...something.

There's a faint shuffling noise. Another rat scurries across the tile, a little closer than before, probably getting more comfortable with the human presence in their space.

Bruce answers, _C - A - N - W - E - H - E - L - P_

"What happened to your family?" Dick asks. "If you tell us maybe we can help."

"Is that Batman talking?"

Dick nods. "Yeah. But it's me too. Let us help."

The speaker system fizzles in and out around a bitter laugh. They say sourly, "You weren't so eager to help last time."

"So we have met." It confirms that, if nothing else.

But their story is still too vague to tell him where or when. He's got to know what happened last time if he's got any hope of talking them down. He can't imagine Bruce saying no to someone in need of help, and he likes to think he wouldn't either. Whoever this is, it's clear they've let them down before. But how?

"Yes and no," they answer dismissively. Then, "You got in the way of justice last time. You're here to make sure that doesn't happen again."

Boy does he not like the sound of that.

Dick's got the distinct impression their ideas of justice don't exactly line up with each other. And if he and Bruce are really just here so that they'll be out of the way of some bigger plot then he's got more to worry about than he thought. There's no telling how many other people are in danger, not until he knows what this person's deal is.

It's clear Bruce must be thinking the same thing, because the next message he taps out is _T - I - M._

Shit.

If their issue is with the Wayne family that means Tim is in danger, him and Alfred. They'll be the only ones at the Manor if someone comes knocking, looking for whatever their idea of justice is.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Wrong questions," they remind him cryptically.

It's also going to be bad if their target is someplace else, but he needs to know it's not the Manor. He needs to at least know Tim and Alfred are safe. He tries, "If we're out of the way you don't lose anything telling me, c'mon."

He's met with a thoughtful silence.

Or maybe just plain silence. It's not like Dick can tell if the monitor is still on, for all he knows they're leaving already.

"You're out of the way for now," they concede after a moment. Then, pointedly, "I've given you everything you need to get out. Provided you can work together like a family. It should occupy you long enough for me to finish my mission, but you've already surprised me once. I didn't think you'd be communicating yet. Don't wanna risk giving too much away."

"Just tell us what happened," Dick presses. "You don't have to hurt anyone."

"That's the only way to get justice in this damned city. But you already know that."

Clearly his deescalating could use some work.

The voice concludes, "I'll check on you soon. For now I've got work to do. Good luck."

There's a faint chatter of static and then Bruce says _G - O - N - E._

It's partially a relief but mostly an added stressor.

They'll get a lot further with the escape without their kidnapper's presence in the room. That said, at least when they're here and talking Dick knows what they're up to. While they're gone he's got no idea what they're doing, who could be at risk.

Dick shifts around until he can get on top of his legs. Time to test how much he can actually move around.

The chain binding his wrists together is heavy and it is tied off to something, he can feel the weight of it dragging behind him when he gets up. But whatever it's connected to, it doesn't stop him from standing. It doesn't even stop him from pacing the few steps he's willing to pace when he can't see where he's putting his feet.

He's still got to pick his words carefully. They might be gone, doesn't mean no one's listening.

"So they're pissed at the Wayne family," Dick says, as detached from the notion as he can be. "You think Wayne Manor is a target?"

_M - A - Y - B - E._

"They think we stopped them last time. Any idea who we're dealing with?"

_G - A - T - E._

Dick stops his pacing before he can walk into the gate. His toe does stub against something solid, but it's a semi-decent reminder that Bruce can still see. Which is a deliberate choice on their captor's part. They're supposed to be working together to get out.

That's probably more worthy of their focus than going back and forth about identity or possible targets. Knowing who this person might be going after won't do them any good until they can get out to stop it.

"Any thoughts on getting outta here anytime soon?"

_U - P._

"I can't see, B. I'm gonna need a little more than 'up.'"

The chain rattles as he walks the few steps back to where he initially started. Bruce tells him, _M - A - N - H - O - L - E._

That's moderately more helpful. So they go up. When they can go, that is.

He can hear a little more shuffling from where he thinks Bruce is sitting. Around the same time that Bruce moves, the chain pulls a little more taut behind him. Enough so that he stumbles backwards a step.

The faint _drip-plop_ from the leaky pipe that told him this was a tunnel before has quickened to a steadier flow. A gentle stream of water, not a leaky pipe.

That's gonna get annoying.

Dick shifts his wrists a little, listening to the rattle of the chain as it drags across the ground. "Are we linked together or something?"

_Y - E - S._

"How long's the chain?"

_T - W - O - S - T - E - P - S - L - E - F - T._

Testing it out, Dick walks two steps to his left. Sure enough, the chain goes taut once more before he can take a third. It doesn't provide a lot of leeway as far as motion goes.

"What about you? Can you get up?"

_I - F - U - S - I - T._

The text speak throws him off again, but only for a second.

It's just long enough for one of them to get away with walking around then. And they can't walk very far. But the voice said everything they need to get out was here.

All they need is a plan.

Dick drops to the ground once more with a groan. "Okay, do you see anything useful?"

* * *

It's been awhile since Jason's gone back to the Batcave.

Not surprising, a visit home hasn't exactly been at the top of his priorities lately. And hell, it still isn't. But the kid's right about the computer system there being better than anything Jason's got access to, and the faster he finds Dick and Bruce the faster he can stop thinking about them. The faster Tim Drake is out of his hair.

Alfred knows they're on their way. With any luck, he's already started digging without them.

"So what's our move," Jason shouts over the wind as they drive, "If the footage turns up empty?"

"We'll figure it out."

Jason snorts. He doesn't remember this family being made up of such optimists.

With an irritable huff, Tim adds, "Focus on the road."

He doubts the kid's usually such a stickler for safe driving methods. The sleet's coming down fast and heavy, the furthest ahead on the road Jason can see definitely isn't far enough. And they're still a good fifteen minutes out.

Seventeen, there's a detour set up in the road just ahead of them.

Those extra two minutes might end up doing the investigation a favor. Something--or rather someone is moving around ahead in the roadway. He's just wondering who else could be crazy enough to be out in this shit when the figure comes a little more into view.

"Hey kid," Jason says, keeping an eye out as the vaguely person shaped blur ducks around a corner. "Wayne Enterprises has got a building round here, don't it?"

Tim takes a second to answer, probably trying to get his bearings in this storm and the speed they're travelling. Then, "Yeah, this block. Why?"

The rear tire leans a little further out towards the side than he's planning for when Jason rounds the corner. He notes the ice on the street as he eases up on the gas, pulling onto the sidewalk where a parked delivery truck will hopefully conceal the bike from view. Might be pointless. Visibility goes two ways, if he was able to see them, they may have been able to see him.

"What's going on?" Tim hisses as the bike halts and Jason indicates for him to get off.

Jason shushes him as he paces towards the end of the truck, peering out around the front. The snow certainly isn't helping with observation. Takes him a few valuable seconds to make out the figure across the street, tampering with something on the side wall of one of the buildings.

He ducks back behind the truck and gestures for Tim to take a look. Offers, "I'm no expert, but that prick looks kinda steampunk to me."

"Wayne Enterprises," Tim says in understanding.

Whoever this asshole is, it's looking like tonight's about more than just the Batman.

"Dude look familiar?"

It might be a moot point. If they can wrap this up here and now, who gives a shit who's under that fugly helmet? But there's a certain strategic quality to knowing at least a little about who you're fighting before you're already fighting them.

Tim hums skeptically. "Maybe."

"Fucking maybe?"

"It's tough to tell from here."

"Doesn't matter," Jason says, already reaching for the holster at his thigh. "I think I got a way to figure it out."

He takes a whole half of a step before there's a surprisingly firm hand grabbing his wrist and yanking him back behind the cover of the truck. It's almost funny seeing that look of disapproval on a face so much younger than him. Tim asks like he already knows the answer, "What are you gonna do?"

With his still free hand, Jason draws a pistol and holds it up for Tim to see. Says simply, "I'm gonna ask him."

"No."

Should've seen that one coming.

"You got a better idea?"

"That armor might be bulletproof."

"Nothing's ever really bulletproof," Jason says, matter of fact. "That's just something incompetent gunmen say so they feel good."

And Tim looks just about ready to strangle him at that, but he settles for hissing, "What is wrong with you?"

He's ready to argue, but the kid probably has a point. Taking this guy out won't answer any of their more pressing questions, like where Dick and Bruce are, or what this has to do with Wayne Enterprises. And taking a shot when he doesn't know which weak points in the armor to target yet will just give away their position and not a whole lot else. Damn Bats and their common sense.

With a sigh, Jason slips the gun back into its holster. He asks tiredly, "What's your idea then?"

"I dunno," Tim says helpfully, moving to peer a little further beyond the hood of the truck. "We could tail him? Maybe he'll lead us to Bruce or--Hang on, look."

Jason follows where Tim's pointing across the street, to where their bad guy in question is walking away from the building. Visibility's still not it's best, but without the bulk of that ridiculous outfit blocking it, Jason's now relatively certain that's a brick of C-4 taped to wall there. Gotta hand it to the goons of Gotham City, never a dull fucking moment.

"Offices are closed for the night, right?"

"Yeah," Tim confirms, tensing as the figure crosses the street. "But we don't know how many of those he planted or where."

"Well, we're gonna find out one way or another."

And now's probably going to be the best time. It's unlikely this person's going to detonate the explosives this close to the building, even decked out in that ridiculous armor. Definitely metal, or at least most of it is. But a material like that has got to limit mobility, which either means there's going to be weak points that allow for easier motion (Joints. Elbows, knees, wrists, anything that needs to move in a fight) or this guy's going to be slow.

Maybe they're willing to risk being slow if it means they pack a heavier punch. Jason's got a feeling they're gonna find that out too, one way or another.

The guy in the suit looks to be picking up the pace as they near the intersection. Whether he's spotted Jason and Tim or he's just looking to put distance between himself and that C-4 isn't totally clear, what is clear is that losing him would be a dumbass move on their part.

He shifts towards their bad guy, blocking Tim's path with an arm on his chest when he moves to follow. He instructs, "Wait here."

"I don't need your protection," Tim grouses, shoving his arm out of the way.

"No," Jason says. "But it might come in handy for someone to hang back 'till we know what kinda weaponry our friend over there is packing."

Whoever this is already outsmarted both Dick and Bruce once. As loathe as he is to pay either of those two a compliment, that's not an easy thing to do. It's probably better to leave the kid out of it until they know what they're dealing with. Purely strategic.

He doesn't hear another argument, so Jason makes his way down the sidewalk, keeping low and close to the walls to avoid drawing attention.

Most of the people Jason finds himself tailing after don't have a helluva lot left to say when he gets to them. Bruce would have a nifty gadget to slow them down for a chat; he knows, he's found himself tripping over bola chords once or twice. Jason's approach is generally more practical. A lot tougher to untangle yourself from a bullet in the back of the knee.

And he's not sure a warning shot is going to do much to encourage conversation, not from someone who seems pretty damn confident they're bulletproof. But he maintains his earlier sentiment, ain't nothing in this world that's bulletproof if you know what you're doing.

When it comes to this, Jason knows what he's doing.

He fires two shots, one into the back of the knee and one to the heel of the same leg. It looks like he's right, the armor is a little thinner there. Not as thin as he was hoping, the bullet to the heel ricochets. It does what he wanted it to though, the guy's leg buckles and he drops to the snow with a tinny shout.

"Did you shoot me?" Their guy asks incredulously, managing to get his leg back beneath him with a distinct mechanical whirring.

Robotic suit of armor. Cool.

"What were you expecting, a hug?"

"My suit is bulletproof, you idiot."

Jason sighs, keeping his gun up all the same as the guy turns to face him. He's thinking the next one will go to the abdomen, the suit's definitely bulkier around the chest and shoulders. That or maybe one of those tubes feeding from the neck of the suit to the chest-plate. Those look important. with a chuckle he asks, "You sure 'bout that?"

"The Red Hood," he says, and for some reason it sounds surprised. "You don't often have business this far uptown. What're you doing here?"

It's true Jason tends to stay closer to the Bowery and Park Row, where there's generally more for him to do. But he goes where the fights take him, he's not all that strict about routines. He has to wonder how much attention this guy's been paying to know it's weird for him to be here.

"Looking for you, believe it or not."

"I don't have a problem with you, Red Hood. You've always protected the people this city would rather forget, I respect that."

"Gee, thanks," Jason says flatly. "But your respect's gonna mean a helluva lot more when you hand over the Bat and his overgrown sidekick. You're probably just about sick of them anyway."

"You don't want the detonator?"

He shrugs disinterestedly. The place is gonna be vacant at this hour and, "Wayne can afford another building."

If Jason didn't know better, he might think that's a chuckle he hears through the suit's voice modulator. Then, "What's your interest in the Bat?"

Boy is he getting sick of that question. "We have unfinished business."

Frankly, it's closer to the truth than anything he told Joe. Far enough away from the truth that he doesn't immediately regret saying it like the talk with Tim.

He takes a half step closer, just testing the waters. The guy tenses but otherwise doesn't make a move. There aren't any weapons he's carrying as far as Jason can see. No guns. No visible pockets or holsters anywhere on the suit to conceal a blade of any sort. Doesn't mean he's not armed.

Jason draws the second pistol from its holster. Says, "If you know about me, you know I don't like to ask twice."

"And you don't know about me yet so I'll forgive you not knowing," he answers, squaring his shoulders, "I don't like to be threatened."

This guy's going to be fun.

He lunges forward and goes for the gun in Jason's right hand, pushing the barrel off-line. The gloved hand around Jason's wrist is enough to confirm his earlier suspicion about the suit, this dude's going to pack one hell of a punch. Fortunately, it also puts him close enough for Jason to press the muzzle of the left pistol right against the metal of the suit. He fires one shot right side.

The yell can just be made out over the sound of the gunshot itself, but it looks like one bullet won't do much to slow this guy down. Before he can get another shot off he's being launched across the street.

Jason's collides with a streetlight before hitting the snow pillowed pavement. Yep. Heavy hitter.

But Jason's used to getting hit. He shakes his head, as if to shake off the impact, and gets right back to his feet. The next swing he's able to duck. And right hook that follows comes a little closer. Third strike he's not so lucky, stumbling backwards but just managing to keep his footing in the snow when a fist strikes the jaw of his helmet.

Alright, so this approach could be working better.

He shuffles back a step to keep some distance between them while he looks for a better attack. The goggle-like eye lenses leap out at him. Sure he can't kill the guy until they've got a location of Dick and Bruce, but lenses in a suit like that have got to be reinforced. Right distance, right aim, he can get away with just cracking the lens. It won't be all that damaging, but it'll certainly obscure visibility. Throwing punches tends to get tough when you can't see a target.

And he's ready to fire too, when some idiot kid comes out of nowhere to strike their mutual friend in the back of the knee with a collapsible bo staff.

"Thought I told you to stay back," Jason snaps as Tim leaps out of the way of an elbow driving backwards towards his gut.

The guy turns to see who's behind him, and Jason darts forward to catch his wrist before he can throw that punch. Tim steps around to sweep the end of the staff through the guy's feet, in a move that would knock them out from under him if that armor weren't so damn heavy. As it is, it does throw him off balance.

"And I would've," Tim says lightly. "If it didn't look like you were getting your ass kicked over here."

"I was not," Jason counters as he drives a knee strike into the point of the armor at the guy's side already weakened by a bullet. "Getting my ass kicked."

"Whatever you sa-"

The tail end of that snide remark is cut off as a blow to the stomach knocks Tim backwards.

Tim's still hauling himself back to his feet when the guy starts towards him, and Jason dashes forward to intercept. The angle is far from perfect, but he raises the one pistol he's managed to hold onto in the kerfuffle and fires.

He knows he's hit the mark by the sharp _crack_ the lead makes against the material of the lens.

The guy's head jerks mechanically to the side. When he's not looking the kid slams the blunt end of the bo into the guy's abdomen, sending him stumbling back. And while he's already off balance Jason steps in close enough to get a grip on the guy's wrist, pressing one of his feet up against the side of the guy's boot and using the momentum to flip him over his shoulders and into the ground.

It's not a move he's used to pulling on opponents bigger than him and he almost falls over himself but it does the trick. He throws back at Tim, "Sorry, who's getting their ass kicked?"

Which is when the guy knocks Jason's leg out from under him with a kick to the shin, and Tim offers obnoxiously, "Still you."

Armor suit guy gets to his feet a moment before Jason does. He rolls out of the way just in time to avoid a boot stomping down on his ribs, and he doesn't quite see how Tim ends up slamming back into the same streetlight Jason was acquainted with a few minutes ago.

"Stay down," the guy says, looking back and forth between them. "Whether Nightwing and the Bat are returned to you or not is in their hands now. My mission is in mine."

"No offense," Jason says as he gets back up, brushing the snow off the shoulders of his jacket. "But you sound kinda crazy, dude."

He's expecting the next punch which makes it a bit easier to sidestep. The one he throws in response probably doesn't do much more than tickle through that armor. Those god damn mecha suits are such cheats.

His ears are still ringing from the next hit his helmet takes when he figures there's more than one way to cheat.

A suit like that has to run on electricity, so maybe it's time they give it a jumpstart. Jason doesn't wear a taser built into his own body armor just to be dramatic.

He has leans out of the way of a sharp kick and another left hook before getting in close enough, and then zapping the guy with a jolt of electricity.

There's a murmured swear from beneath the helmet, and the next hit the guy throws doesn't seem half as smooth. The mechanical whirring the suit's movements make is more noticeable as his step stutters. It hasn't stopped him, but the mechanics are at least on the fritz. It gives Tim the opportunity to swoop in and yank one of those important looking tubes from out of place in the suit's neck.

"You couldn't've used that sooner?" Tim asks flatly.

"Keep pushing me, kid," Jason grits. "You're next."

Tim refrains from replying in favor of turning back towards their guy. The gloved hands of his suit are frantically trying to maneuver the tube back in place while he retreats backwards with awkward steps.

"You're done now," Tim says, starting back towards him. "Where are Batman and Nightwing?"

"You'll have to try harder than that," the guy tells them, abandoning repairing the suit in favor of opening a panel on his glove.

It takes all of a half a second for him to realize what that button means, and then the charge is going off and Jason's tackling Tim with a shout of, "Get down!"


	6. and they said you were the crooked kind / and that you'd never have no worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a slightly late update, ft. tim drake's inferiority complex  
> finals are finally over, so i'm hoping the next update will come a bit quicker, but thanks to everyone for being patient! i hope it's worth it, lol
> 
> chapter title from 'always gold' by radical face <3

For some reason the loudest thought in Tim's head when he slams into the ground is to wonder whether Jason's ever thought about going into football. The second loudest is _ouch._

For a second he loses time. Or maybe it's just that funny way explosions have of making time go all sort of fuzzy. All he can really tell is that he doesn't remember closing his eyes, and then he's opening them. A little dizzy as he lifts his cheek up off of the ground. He can't totally differentiate the dull buzzing resonating in his skull from the noise going on around them, and he feels more than hears the set of heavy boots retreating down the street.

Tim blinks. Their guy's getting away.

He groans and moves to get himself at least up onto his elbows. It's only when that's a little harder than it's supposed to be that he realizes there's a weight pinning him to the ground.

"Yeah, you can let me up now," he says. The settling dust makes his voice feel scratchy. He clears his throat and says, a bit more clearly, "Jason?"

It's when he's not immediately met with a sarcastic remark of some sort that he gets moderately worried. Tim throws his shoulder back with a little more effort, stacking one elbow on the ground beneath him.

Jason wakes with a pained hiss. But he definitely must've been out, because one Jason's awake he's all focus. Rolling to the side to let Tim up with the question, "Which way did he go?"

"He got away, Jason."

"Which way?"

Honestly, Tim's not even sure. He's still reorienting to a not-spinning view of the road when he climbs to his feet, and if their guy is even half as smart as Tim thinks he'll be long gone by now. You don't blow up buildings willy nilly without a solid escape route already mapped.

"Away," he repeats more firmly.

Jason grumbles something under his breath as he climbs to his feet. Then he asks a bit more clearly, "Are you hurt?"

The half-joking complaint about being tackled to the ground dies on his tongue when he glances over at Jason and catches him swaying. Tim's a bit wobbly footed himself, but when Jason takes a step he pitches forward, threatening to fall before he catches himself.

"No but you are," Tim says, stepping to him to see where.

A dry chuckle. "I noticed."

Of course he did. There's a sizable shard of Wayne Enterprises office building embedded in Jason's left side. And the stubborn jerk is acting like that guy in the mecha suit is the bigger priority right now, brushing Tim aside to glance up and down the road for which way he could've gone. As if he'll stand a better change against the dude with shrapnel sticking out of his side.

Fortunately, that piece of metal is blocking most of the bleeding right now. Although by no means enough, if the splotches of red coloring the snow where Jason stands are any indication. Or maybe those are dripping from the moderately less formidable shard in his right leg.

Either way, it's bound to slow them down.

There's an ominous rumbling from what remains of the unstable building behind them that doesn't speak well to them staying here much longer.

"C'mon," Tim says, throwing Jason's arm over his shoulders. "Let's go."

Jason's more than a bit taller than him, which makes trying to help support him a little awkward. But the bigger obstacle is Jason, trying to shrug him away and grumbling, "I don't need your help here, kid."

"You're limping," Tim points out.

"I'm fine."

"And bleeding."

"I'm. Fine."

Sure he is. Tim scoffs, adjusting his hold on Jason's wrist.

They'll have all the time in the world to argue about being too stubborn to accept help _after_ they're out of the way of a possible secondary blast, or even just another collapse. It looks like the cave in is mostly centered on the right side of the building right now, but the left side looks about ready to join it any minute. Which isn't to mention the flame Tim can make out on at least four separate levels, and spreading quick.

Gritting his teeth, Tim offers, "We don't have time for this. I'm helping. You can tell me to fuck off when we're three blocks from here."

"Fine," Jason says, and Tim can imagine the eye rolling he's doing behind that helmet.

And Tim's not totally sure where he's guiding them exactly, but they start walking all the same.

Jason's bike was parked too close to the building to have survived the blast, which certainly limits their options as far as transportation goes. And there's not exactly a surplus of cars parked on the road tonight; nobody wants to be out in this storm, and standard office hours ended some time ago. This part of the city is a ghost town at this hour.

Tim keeps from commenting when Jason actually starts to lean on him. They can hear the crash of another level of the building coming down on itself from two blocks away.

And, true to his word, Tim lets Jason shrug him off by three blocks.

It's a good place to stop and regroup anyway. They've got no plan, no transportation, and Tim still needs to get an idea of how badly Jason's actually wounded. It definitely affects their next move if they've got to plan around one of them possibly passing out from blood loss. But Jason seems less concerned than Tim, so maybe that's a good sign.

"He said Bruce and Dick coming back was in their hands now," Jason says, somewhat distractedly as he props one hand faux casually against a frozen bus stop bench. He raises an arm and twists his neck around in an effort to get a look at the metal in his side, a motion that's only going to aggravate the wound even further. "Any idea what that's s'pposed to mean?"

"A trap of some sort, maybe?" As Jason reaches his opposite hand out, tentatively poking at the shrapnel, Tim steps up to swat the hand away and adds, "Don't pull that out."

"That's what she said."

"Unbelievable."

Tim sighs and paces a little further up the road, gesturing for Jason to follow. The glow of the streetlight makes it a little easier to distinguish the dark red coloring the back of Jason's jacket.

It doesn't look good. It could also definitely have been worse.

The most troubling detail is that there's no uniform shape as far as pointy chunks of exploded building go. Because that makes it difficult to tell how deep the wound really is, which makes it difficult to anticipate how much it's going to bleed once the shrapnel is removed. But if the snow at their feet is good for anything, it's displaying just how little the shrapnel is actually doing to staunch the bleeding.

"Sit down," Tim says, kicking some snow out of the way on the curb just below the light.

"I'm good." He gives a small shake of his head, pushing away from the bench to stand on his own. "We need to keep moving."

"What we need is a plan," Tim corrects pointedly. "And for you not to bleed out before we can catch that steampunk psycho. Sit down."

It's more than likely that Alfred's going to have to stitch at least the wound in his side when they get back to the Cave. Until they can arrange for that, a pressure dressing from the medical supplies in Tim's utility belt will have to suffice. It'll be easier to make their back if he's not dragging Jason around, anyway.

Jason scoffs but moves to sit where Tim indicates all the same. Only pulling his helmet off to place in the snow at his side once he's already sitting, and there's no wince left to conceal.

His breath forms ghosts on the cold air as he insists, "It's not even that bad."

"Tell that to your kidney if you'd been hit an inch higher."

"Got two for a reason, don't I?" At least he laughs like he's joking.

Tim doesn't find it all that funny. He kneels down on the sidewalk beside him to inspect the wound, but can't help drawing his focus away for a second to snap, "What the hell were you thinking?"

Jason's expressions shifts from moderately pained to angry with a practiced ease. He echoes, "I'm sorry, what was _I_ thinking? I told you to stay outta that fight, kid."

"You should've ducked for cover," Tim says. If Jason had dived the other direction he would've hit a snow bank instead of Tim, which isn't the best cover but if the snow's thick enough it could at least slow the debris. Not by much, but a half a centimeter can be crucial when the question of a bleeding wound is concerned.

Luckily, this one doesn't look quite so drastic. But in these circumstances, a half a centimeter can be the difference between a venous injury or an arterial one. Tim sighs, "Instead of worrying about me."

"You're pissed 'cause I saved your ass?" Jason says, a hint of confusion mingling with the ever present temper.

"Yes--No!"

Maybe he's just pissed Jason had to. If Tim had paid more attention to where the detonator was than some random tube in the suit they wouldn't be here right now.

He shakes his head and turns his attention to slowing the bleeding. That's more important than this conversation right now.

The metal is speared through the leather of his jacket, which means Tim's probably going to have to try and cut the edge of it out of the way. He pulls the utility knife from his pocket and gets to work. The bigger problem is going to be the body armor, which is designed to keep sharp things from cutting through it. Unfortunately, Tim's not the only one not doing what he's supposed to tonight.

Jason takes in a deep breath and just barely fails at suppressing the wince as it shifts the shrapnel in his side. Commenting, "If this is about your whole 'don't pretend to care' schtick again--"

"It's not," Tim snaps. Then, "Every time you talk you aggravate your side, so maybe stop doing that."

"Sure, that's why you want me to shut up," Jason says dismissively, propping one hand on the ground behind him. "For my sake."

Maybe they don't have to worry about getting through Jason's body armor to bandage the wound, come to think of it. Alfred can deal with that better at home. If Tim can just squeeze a padding of gauze through the gap the shrapnel already made and manage to secure a bandage over that, the tightness of the armor might actually help to hold it in place.

Ignoring Tim's advice, as usual, Jason just changes the subject to say, "Wayne Enterprises won't be the only target."

"How do you know?"

"He mentioned having a mission," Jason says, almost conversationally. "I'm thinking it's the revenge sort. Those tend to aim a bit higher than blowing up one ugly building."

Tim snorts. "You'd know a little something about that, wouldn't you?"

He wants to take it back the second he says it, even if it is just snide muttering under his breath. It's not fair to bring up Jason's past when he's the one asking for Jason's help in the first place. Least of all his whole thing about getting revenge on Bruce a few years back, when he's here now trying to rescue Bruce. And especially not now that Tim's trying to clean up a shrapnel wound from the blast Jason pushed _him_ out of the way from.

But the comment slips out before Tim can think better of it.

Jason tenses, be it from annoyance or the discomfort in his side. Either way, Tim briefly entertains the idea of apologizing. But he doubts it'll mean much, so he says instead, "I'm gonna have to pull this out. It's gonna hurt."

"Thanks for the warning, half-pint," Jason says dismissively. "But I think I'll be fi--"

The remark abruptly cuts off into a suppressed shout as Tim grabs a hold of the blade of shrapnel and tugs it away. He's as careful about it as he can be, lest one of the sharp edges make anything worse on the way back out, but once it's loose he discards the piece of metal in the snow without a second thought. Jason huffs a resounding, "Sonuva bitch."

"Alright, Alfred's gonna have to stitch this up, but until then," Tim says as he unfurls a roll of gauze and tucks it as best he can into the gap in Jason's body armor, "This should do the trick."

And here's to hoping that it does. Because if this gets worse it'll be Tim's fault twice over.

With enough of the gauze in place, he applies a pressure dressing over top of it, and some medical tape just to make sure it stays in place. Before he can withdraw his hand all the way, Jason catches his wrist, levelling him with a look that's part glare, part calculating. Challenges, "Wanna tell me what you're really pissed about, kid?"

"I didn't mean anything by that."

"My experience, Bats and Birds both rarely say shit they don't mean." It's not angry, per se. Just an observation.

An accurate one. Sort of.

Because he knows it's not fair to bring up Jason's past behaviors right now, but it's easier to believe this is Jason when he reminds himself of all the wrongs he's done. The alternative is trying to make sense of the Red Hood possibly being something other than just a ruthless killer.

He doesn't care enough about Tim to push him out of the way of an explosion, which would mean the action has nothing to do with Tim, it's just Jason's nature. Which doesn't make sense with the guy who starts gang wars, and blows up buildings, and tries to coerce Bruce into shooting the Joker. It's confusing, and Tim doesn't like being confused.

Getting mad is a little easier.

God, it's been a long night. And it's only going to get longer. They still don't have Bruce or Dick, or whoever that was in the mechanical armor.

"Okay, I guess I meant it. But you didn't deserve that," Tim says, and it must be the surprise evident in Jason's expression that has him letting go of Tim's wrist so quick. "We're not getting into this here though."

They're hopefully not getting into it ever.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Can we get a move on already?"

"Yeah," Tim says. "Just as soon as I patch up your leg."

Jason's gaze flickers down to the leg in question, as if weighing the pros and cons of letting Tim take a look at it.

The shard of metal sticking out of the back of his right knee is a good deal smaller. This one probably won't even require stitches. It will, however, get in the way of fighting that guy in the suit when it comes time for their next round. From the way the first one went, that's not a weakness they can spare.

It looks like Jason comes to the same conclusion, because he gives an irritable huff before conceding, "Fine. Knock yourself out."

* * *

It doesn't take more than about three minutes to finish patching up the leg--wrapping a roll of bandaging above someone's knee really doesn't take that much skill. And, fortunately, it looks like that's the last of the injuries Jason sustained in the blast. That's the good news.

The bad news is that in those three minutes, the blessed sound of Jason not saying anything for Tim to argue with is interrupted by the really rather distinctive noise a building makes when it's getting blown to hell. Jason manages to convey an entire "I told you so" with one simple glance.

The cloud of smoke rising into the sky from at least five blocks away, possibly further, isn't enough to say what the location of the second blast was. It is enough to say, as Jason so eloquently phrases it, "Time to go."

"You can't walk all the way to the Cave," Tim points out as Jason rejects the hand offered to help him back to his feet.

"I've definitely walked further with worse." Unfortunately that's probably true. "'Sides, we just have to borrow a car."

Tim gestures up and down the eerily abandoned street. "Yeah," he says, faux optimistically. "Just take your pick."

A dull, blatantly fake laugh. "There should be some up the road."

His next response is cut short when Alfred's voice comes through on his earpiece. Reasonably concerned, seeing as they were supposed to arrive back at the Cave some time ago, and not only are they late, but they're late at the same time that things are getting blown up.

Tim fills him in and asks him to have a med kit ready to look Jason over when they get there. For all the good it'll do. Sure, Jason's still limping, but if anything he's actually picked up the pace.

He asks Alfred to gather whatever intel he can on any links between the places being blown up, then switches off the comms. It looks like Jason's right, there are one or two cars parked along the sidewalks just up the block. A cleaner's van and a pizza delivery car. The former has obviously been parked awhile, going by the pillow of snow accumulating on the roof.

And just in time too, because the chill of the wind biting through the Red Robin suit has been getting old for at least half a block.

Tim draws a lockpicking set from his utility belt and gets to work on the driver's side door. His fingers are more than a little numb from the cold, which makes the process a bit more tedious than he's accustomed to.

Which isn't helped by Jason murmuring from somewhere over his shoulder, "No yeah, take your time."

"It's cold," Tim says defensively. Then, not looking up as he works, "Like you could do it any faster, alright? There's an art to low impact break--"

Before he can finish that statement, an object that looks an awful lot like Jason's Red Hood helmet is smashing clear through the glass of the driver's side window. And a car alarm is going off, all the louder for how silent the streets are.

"My way," he says over the din, brushing some shattered glass away from the pane, "Works better."

"Oh yeah, very stealthy."

"Like a fucking shadow," Jason says obnoxiously, unlocking the door and climbing inside.

With a paranoid glance over his shoulder, Tim follows after him. Swatting at Jason's shoulder until he climbs out of the way and into the passenger seat, and ignoring the remark about whether or not he's even tall enough to drive. (He is, thank you very much.) They're on the move quick enough, with Jason reaching a hand towards the dash to crank the heater up.

"It might be warmer," Tim indicates dryly. "If we had a window."

"Just drive, Timmers."

"Don't call me that."

* * *

"Okay, do you see anything useful?"

Bruce offers a noncommittal hum. Which, he's aware, is less than helpful. But at the moment it's the best he can provide.

He doesn't see much of anything at all, let alone anything they can work with. The only light emanates from the electric white of the standby screen of the monitor. From what Bruce can make out through the shadow, the tunnel is relatively small, and relatively empty.

The wall to the left side is where the monitor is mounted, then there are the two slightly curved walls Bruce and Dick are each propped up against. The floorspace between them is coated in mold and muck. A metal gate towards the right side blocks any path they might take that way, making the manhole in the ceiling their best option.

There's not a ladder in sight, that would be too easy. There's also nothing, as far as he can see, to aid in breaking the chains.

He's heard the occasional rat scampering around but he's yet to see a single rat. Briefly, he entertains the idea that there aren't any. The noise always comes from the same direction. They deal with far too many enemies with a proclivity for mind games not to ask, although he can't see the benefit to tricking them into thinking there are rats in a sewer tunnel when there aren't. Not unless there's something keeping the actual rats away that they need to be distracted from.

None of which helps with the escape plan. Not yet, anyway.

More concerning is the way Dick seemed to favor one side when he was pacing. He's not fidgeting as much as usual where he sits. It suggests he was keeping something back when he told Bruce he wasn't injured. A shoulder, or maybe a rib. Whatever it is, it's going to affect their escape. But that's far from the only reason Bruce doesn't like not knowing.

"Batman?" Dick prompts through the silence.

He nods, although Dick can't see, surveying the ground a second time. It looks like there's something on the ground through the gate. Difficult to make out, and no doubt more difficult to reach. Maybe they can try.

 _G - R - O - U - N - D - L - E - F - T_.

"Something on the ground," Dick clarifies, frown deepening. "What is it?"

Now's as good a time as any to find out. His left leg has gone slightly tingly from sitting in the same position for so long, but he stretches it out and climbs to his feet.

* * *

The two of them drive most of the way in a silence that falls just short of companionable, broken only by the wind howling through the gap where the driver's side window is supposed to be, and Jason drumming agitated fingers against the door-handle.

About five minutes out, Jason abruptly stops his drumming. In his peripheral Tim can make out Jason glancing over at him, but in this weather he's unwilling to look away from the road to gauge the reason. Then Jason clears his throat and says, "What aren't we getting into, exactly?"

It takes him a second to line the question up with what he said back at the streetlight. When he does, Tim offers a one-shouldered shrug and answers, "Seeing as we're not getting into it, it doesn't really matter."

"That's funny."

He delivers it with all the humor of someone who doesn't, in fact, think it's remotely funny.

And the thing is, even if it were anyone else he were having this conversation with, it wouldn't be the time. They've got a bomber on the loose in Gotham, and that bomber has Bruce and Dick god knows where, and they've got next to nothing as far as leads go. And it's not anyone else he's having this conversation with, it's Jason.

Despite this, Tim finds himself grumbling, "Why would you push me out of the way?"

Jason scoffs obnoxiously. "What, did you _want_ to get blown up or something?"

"Shut up. I just don't--" he says persuasively, floundering for an actual explanation as to why he's upset about this. He lands on, "You're supposed to be an asshole."

At least Jason's reaction is evidence that that much is still true. He laughs and says, matter of fact, "I am."

As if it's just that simple. "I know."

"So what's the problem?"

If he knew, it probably wouldn't be a problem anymore.

He breaths a frustrated sigh and focuses on not skidding out on an unnoticed patch of black ice. Sends a quick alert about their ETA to Alfred over the comms.

Jason lets the silence stretch on for another minute before needling, "You were the one who said we needed to talk like an actual team, remember?"

The wind picks up a bit as he presses impatiently on the gas.

"We're not a team, Jason," Tim snaps, sparing a split second glance away from the road for the express purpose of glaring at Jason. And he's not sure what prompts him to say it, but before he can reconsider, he's blurting out, "Dick and Bruce are missing. They're gone."

Jason's voice is a wary sort of skeptical. "I'm aware."

"Maybe you don't see it this way, but they're still your family," he says, grip tightening around the steering wheel. He hates to admit it, but, "That makes you and Alfred the only family I've got right now. And I _can't_ get the back on my own, alright? I'm not enough. I don't like it any more than you do, but I need you. Okay?"

Which is, frankly, depressing.

If he were half the detective Bruce is he'd know where they are by now. Twenty-four hours might not be that long in the grand scheme of things, but it's long enough for...he doesn't even know what to happen to them. The only reason they're not dead already is because the guy in the mecha suit apparently doesn't want them dead already. Anything else that happens is on Tim.

Letting that guy set off the detonator was a stupid fucking mistake.

"You're enough, Tim," Jason says, uncharacteristically quiet. So much so that Tim almost doesn't catch it, but that could be the window. He clears his throat and adds, a bit louder, "I may be an asshole, but I'm an asshole that keeps his promises. I told you I'd help you get them back, I ain't going nowhere until it's done. Got it?"

He's not sure what's weirder. That Jason's trying to reassure him, or that it sort of, almost works.

Tim lets out a breath, and drops some of the tension he's holding in his shoulders with it. Mumbles, "Thanks."


	7. is there so much hate for the ones we love / tell me we both matter don't we

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from 'running up that hill' by kate bush

In typical Alfred Pennyworth fashion, he's already there waiting when they arrive. With the trademarked neutral face of displeasure and a fancy old British guy outfit to boot.

They've barely piled out of their freezing, stolen car before Alfred's politely brushing past any questions on progress in favor of insisting he take a look at the shrapnel wound. More than likely at Tim's insistence. ("Snitches get stitches, kid." "No. You do.") But in all honestly Tim's driving doesn't exactly mix well with hypovolemia, and Jason's a little too woozy to argue otherwise.

Oddly enough, Jason's faintly grateful for the spots of scarlet soaking through the bandage on his side. It means that at least for now they can brush past the whole 'It's been too long' spiel.

As if he knows that, and hell he probably does he knows everything, Alfred says almost conversationally, "The second blast was located at the Iceberg Lounge."

"That doesn't make any sense," Tim says from the countertop he's perched on.

"No, but you gotta admire his choice in locale," Jason says, earning equally reproving looks from the both of them. Right. His sense of humor isn't always well received in polite company. "Sorry. D'you know if everyone got out okay?"

"Fortunately, if somewhat ironically, the Lounge was closed due to tonight's weather. It was empty apart from a cleaning crew whom, according to my resources, departed shortly before the blast."

So there is still such a thing as good news.

Tim leaps gracefully down in time to offer Alfred a pair of scissors to snip the thread of the final stitch. As he does, he asks, "Maybe that's part of the plan somehow?"

Jason frowns. "What're you thinking, half-pint?"

"Two bombs and zero fatalities, you do the math. Our bomber's either totally inept, or he doesn't actually wanna hurt anybody."

Alfred offers a skeptical hum as he applies an extra layer of medical tape over the fresh bandage on Jason's side. Comments disapprovingly, "He had no compunctions about harming either of you, however."

"We got in his way, though," Jason points out. "Timbo might be onto something here."

That said, standing here talking about what sort of a conscience this guy does or doesn't have won't get Bruce and Dick back from wherever they're stowed away.

Jason hops down from the tabletop he's sat on. Maybe a little too quickly, because with the motion the room starts spinning anew, and he has to brace himself with a hand against the table to keep upright.

"I merely stopped the bleeding, Master Jason, that does nothing for the effects of how much you've already lost," Alfred says behind the veil of patience. "Perhaps you should remain seated."

As if. This is his shrapnel wound and he'll deal with it the way he chooses, thank you very much. Besides, he's not planning on going far. Just across the room to grab his shirt off the counter first.

The Cave is a good deal warmer than the city outside, even despite the draft, and comparing the two he's not actually all that cold. But the autopsy scars, understandably, have a way of making people uncomfortable. Not to mention a few more that he'd rather not have people asking about later. So shirt's probably a good idea.

"I'm good. Just gimme a sec."

"You're nearly as bad as Master Bruce," Alfred says, and Tim snorts.

That's got to be the most insulting way anyone's ever called Jason a stubborn bastard before. He shifts his weight uncomfortably to one side. Argues, "Don't compare me to him, Alf."

He's got next to nothing in common with Bruce and it's not fair to either of them to pretend otherwise. Still, he almost regrets saying anything at the look that flickers across Alfred's face. It's quickly schooled back to his omnipresent impartiality but Jason catches it despite the effort.

"My apologies," Alfred says gracefully. Then, nodding towards the table, "Do have a seat, please."

For whatever reason, he listens.

* * *

Somehow Jason lets Alfred talk him into sitting still long enough for a blood transfusion.

As much as he would rather not be sitting around down here doing exactly fuck all, he's also big enough to admit that they might stand a better change against their bad guy when they find him if he's not about to pass out from blood loss. It's not like they have anything to act on yet anyway. Resting for a little while is practical. Doesn't mean he has to like it, just that he has to tolerate it.

Which actually proves easier done than said. He just has to roll up the sleeve of the thermal shirt Alfred provided, swab some iodine over the crook of his elbow, and sit still while Alfred sticks a needle in. Et voilà.

Then Alfred's about to duck out, with the promise of returning with some hot beverages, when the kid goes and asks, "What can I do?"

Alfred quirks an eyebrow. "Master Tim, are you under the impression you're not also required to rest?"

"I'm fine," Tim says, arms crossed. "Jason's only hurt _because_ I'm fine. Let me look over the security footage or something."

This fucking kid, he swears. "If I have to tell you one more time that none of this is your fault, I swear I'll kick your ass. So quit beating yourself up before I do."

"That's, without a doubt," Tim says, giving him a look somewhere between indignant and confused, "The meanest reassurance I've ever been given."

"What Master Jason lacks in tact, he at least makes up for in accuracy," Alfred remarks deliberately. "Now, you have not slept in nearly forty eight hours. If I can not convince you to go to bed, I shall at least see to it that you take a break."

"I can take a break when we get Bruce and Dick back. They're in trouble, we can't just do nothing." And the kid must know he's fighting a losing battle here, because he resorts to appealing, "Right, Jason?"

"Sorry, kid. Alfred's right." That's a universal truth, unfortunately.

Tim throws his head back and groans.

"That said, I bet I can do this," Jason continues, indicating the I.V. to his left with a nod, "In front of a screen. So how 'bout I take a look at what you got on the bombings so far? You can learn a lot about a person by how they blow shit up, and I think I've got the most expertise in that area."

Alfred's eyes flicker momentarily up towards the ceiling and he takes in a deep breath. Then, looking back and forth between them, he stresses, "The both of you are to _rest_ until I instruct otherwise. I can assure you neither Master Bruce nor Master Dick have any interest in being rescued at the expense of either of you dropping dead from exhaustion."

It's almost a superpower all it's own, the way Alfred can deliver the message so properly and yet so disapproving.

About the only thing that keeps him from cracking that joke about how Bruce historically handles Jason dropping dead is that he suddenly remembers Alfred's got to be just as worried as they are. Or, as Tim is anyway. Except that Alfred doesn't get the privilege of feeling stressed, not when he's got them to look after.

So with a sudden flare of guilt, Jason sighs and says, "You're right. Thanks, Alf."

It seems no one was expecting him to agree so easily, if the suspicious looks he receives from both Alfred and Tim are any indication. Alfred gives a decisive nod and turns to leave with an, "I shall be back shortly." Leaving him alone with the kid again. Great.

Jason lets out a slow breath and lays back on the table, eyes idly tracing the stalactites in the Cave ceiling. He's not sure if it's refreshing or unsettling the way nothing seems to have changed since the last time he was here.

"You're not sneaking off to dig into the bombings," Tim observes, a hint of a question coloring his tone.

"I'm a man of my word, kid," Jason says, propping the arm not currently hooked to an I.V. behind his head as a pillow. "One of these days you're gonna figure that out, Jr. Detective."

He huffs impatiently. "You do know my name is Tim right?"

Jason just shrugs.

In the absence of a point to argue, Tim's uncharacteristically quiet. Finally.

There's a faint shuffling, and when Jason glances over the kid's back to sitting on countertops. Head resting against the wall behind him. With any luck, he's taking Alfred's advice too.

He doesn't even know what time it is, just that tonight's been long and it's not over yet. Tim should know how this works by now. They should rest while they can, because there's no telling when the next opportunity will be once they've got intel they can move on. And apparently the stubborn little shit hasn't been sleeping.

"Hey," Tim says into the quiet, somewhat awkwardly. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Which time?" He means it as a joke, but a quick look over at Tim's face shows that he's serious about the apology. Here Jason thought they were done doing the whole _feeling_ _s_ bit. Especially after he failed so spectacularly that last time. Shaking his head, Jason amends, "Forget about it. Not like you said anything that wasn't true, anyway."

Assuming this is about that little barb about revenge missions again.

Tim draws a knee up to his chest. Says, "I was scared. And I just...get angry when I'm scared, sometimes. I'm working on it."

Funny enough, Jason knows a little something about how that goes. He also knows he doesn't want to have that conversation, least of all with his replacement. Who, by the way, seems to have a way better handle on 'working on it' than Jason ever has.

"You don't owe me an explanation," he says, for both their sake.

There's no immediate reply, and Jason's foolishly optimistic enough to believe the conversation is going to end there. Then Tim sighs and says, "You know, sometimes I think you like having us blame you for shit."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. If we're pissed at you that means you have more excuses to stay away."

Right. Here they go, so much for quiet. Jason keeps his focus on the edge of a stalactite and says, as reasonably as he can, "I don't need an excuse to stay away, Bruce made it pretty clear--"

"Sorry, are you trying not to prove my point? 'Cause that's not what it sounds like," he interrupts. And to Tim's credit it doesn't sound like he's trying to pick a fight, but there's nowhere else this can go if he keeps talking. "You don't have to stay away. Bruce doesn't want that."

"That's it," Jason says, sitting back up a little too quickly, but he's sure the irritation masks the grimace at least somewhat. "If I let you guys blame me for shit it's because it's shit I did, and I stand by my decisions. But Batman's moral convictions are more important than reality, and that's why he doesn't want me here, and that's why I stay away. Last I checked, you didn't have a problem with that."

"I don't," Tim insists. "But you're here helping me find them, so I gotta think maybe you do."

"We already had that conversation, two-bit."

"Why can't you just admit that you care?"

As if it's really that simple.

It's at least nice to see Dick's been spending plenty of time with _this_ little brother, if the way the kid thinks it's his business to just fix everyone else's problems is any indication. But the realization that Tim's spewing all this crap about excuses and caring because he doesn't want Jason to be alone doesn't do what it should. He's not interested in false hope, and it's twice as infuriating when his replacement has ten times the heart that he or Bruce ever did.

"Whatever my reasons," Jason says measuredly. "I gave up a shot at the Joker to be here because you asked. So maybe, next time you've got something to say about shit you don't understand, you can keep it to yourself. Okay?"

Tim snorts, pulling the second leg up to join the first. Resting his chin on his knees, he glares down at the ground and says sullenly, "Yeah, whatever."

There's that aforementioned heart the kid possesses.

He's got no clue in hell why it even matters to Tim if he and Bruce are on friendly terms or not, but evidently it does. And, as Alfred was kind enough to point out before, Jason falls short as far as tact is concerned.

They'll work better as a team if they're not pissed at each other, which is absolutely the only reason that Jason says, "Look, that's not fair. I'm sorry, kid."

"No, you're right," Tim says with a sigh. "It's none of my business."

Jason's aware he was the one doing the snapping, but he realizes he really doesn't like how easily the kid just accepts being snapped at like that.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, Timberly," he says, and the obnoxious nickname is at least enough to put a crack in that semi permanent frown etched onto his face. Jason props a hand on the table behind him and concludes, "But you're trying to fix something that can't be fixed. Let it go, alright?"

It's not entirely a request, but here's to hoping Tim accepts it as one.

Tim squints across at him for a second, no doubt considering whether or not to say something. He's still the risktaker Jason took him for, because after a moment he says hopefully, "Some things just take time."

"Yeah," Jason answers, passing a hand tiredly across his face. "And some things just stay broken."

Fortunately, they're going to have to table the Bruce talk there whether Tim wants to or not, because Alfred picks that moment to arrive with a tray of mugs and what appears to be celery sticks, apple slices, and peanut butter.

"I'll admit I'm rather surprised to find you both still in place," Alfred remarks approvingly, passing a mug over to each of them and placing the tray on the table next to Jason. "I suggest that you eat something."

Jason accepts the tea readily enough, but he raises an eyebrow at the snack choices. Asks skeptically, "Am I five?"

"Mentally, maybe," Tim murmurs into his mug.

"I heard that."

"Peanuts contain iron, vitamin B-6, and folate. Making them ideal for replenishing the nutrients lost when one loses blood," Alfred says primly, gracefully ignoring Jason and Tim's asides. Then he cracks a half a smile and adds, "Not to mention how foolish it would be to miss an opportunity to ensure you've been eating your fruits and vegetables."

Fair enough. He's been too focused lately to do any of the cooking he actually enjoys, which means living off fast food and diner burgers, and yeah his diet is probably lacking in the veggie department.

"Well when you put it like that," he says, rolling his eyes but accepting the offering of a peanut buttered celery stick nonetheless.

Alfred gives a satisfied nod before lifting the platter towards Tim and saying, under the disguise of a suggestion, "You should eat something as well."

"I didn't lose any blood," Tim answers smugly. And there's a kid Alfred's got to fight with over vegetables if Jason ever saw one.

"Fortunately, peanut butter is also high in carbohydrates and protein content," Alfred says without missing a beat. "Both of which are necessary for physical activities; say, flipping around on rooftops or fighting unknown persons in mechanicalized suits of armor, for instance."

"Jeez," Jason says, stifling a grin. "You'd think he helped raise, like, four stubborn vigilantes or something."

Tim throws his hands up in defeat and leans forward enough to snag a couple of carrots off of the plate. "Okay. Thanks, Alfred."

"Of course."

While they're munching on the provided snacks, Alfred paces around the table to check on the blood bag connected to the I.V. in Jason's arm, then back out of the room, saying something about checking on the news.

Jason's not all that confident the late night news will have anything useful to report they don't already know. Maybe what they should be more interested in is the connection between the Iceberg Lounge and Wayne Enterprises. If Tim's right and this guy isn't looking to hurt anyone, this is either about something he gains from the locations, or making a statement.

A nightclub and an office building don't exactly have much in common. Is it the owners with alter egos tying them together?

That's a weak connection at best. They don't actually have any reason to believe this guy knows who Bruce is. Besides, personal feelings about the Bat set aside, he's not a bad guy. Not a career criminal, not like the Penguin.

Wayne Enterprises and the Iceberg Lounge do both cater predominantly to the wealthy.

"The people this city would rather forget," Jason murmurs, chewing his bottom lip in thought.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, looking up with a slight shake of his head. "Just something our guy said earlier."

Tim frowns over the mug he's mostly only leeching the warmth from. "Something useful?"

Honestly? Probably not.

But talking the case is definitely safer waters than talking anything else. Not to mention that it's at least a semi decent distraction from the distant, familiar ache in his side. He'll entertain the idea at least for a second.

"He just told me he didn't have beef with the Red Hood, 'cause he thinks I protect people the city forgets. Means he's probably from my side of the tracks, right?"

"Huh," Tim says. "Weird."

That's nice and vague. "Wanna share with the class, kid?"

"This guy is just like someone Batman fought before," Tim elaborates with something adjacent to frustration. "That guy described himself as Gotham's 'forgotten son,' or something like that. And he was a bomber, too."

The prospect of finally having something to go on might mean a little something more, if not for the lack of optimism of any kind in Tim's delivery. Already knowing he won't like the answer, Jason sets his own mug aside and asks, "How do we know this ain't him?"

"Joe's description of the mecha suit sounded familiar, so I asked Alfred to check Arkham's security database after we left," Tim says, and the reasoning behind his apparent frustration becomes a little more clear. As does the frustration. "He's still there. Which means it's either a coincidence or-"

"-Someone else took up the mantle." That bodes well, the first guy wasn't just crazy enough to land in Arkham, he was crazy enough to gain a following. "What did the first guy want?"

"To destroy the city."

Naturally.

"Alright, nerd bird," Jason says, rolling his eyes. "Tell me you got a little something more than that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure if this chapter was actually shorter than standard, but it feels like it is, so if it is i'm sorry lol  
> thanks for reading!


	8. caught in the eye of a dead man's lie / start your life with your head held high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from 'heaven knows' by the pretty reckless

He's got no real clue how long they've actually been trapped down here, but in the short amount of time that he's been conscious Dick's come to one very important realization. Underground tunnels suck.

No, he means it. There's a draft, and it smells so bad, and the rats get to be annoying after a point, and the walls are damp and cold which is weird and gross. Not to mention that oh so crucial detail about being stuck down here with no way to help while the city, and possibly Tim too, is in some form of unknown danger. Plus he's kind of hungry.

It takes Bruce a minute to figure out what, exactly, lies on the ground to the left. Which tells Dick that either the tunnel lighting is particularly horrendous, or this unknown object is in a harder to reach spot than just 'the ground.' Knowing sewer tunnels and knowing Bruce, it's probably some combination of the two.

But after an instant there's an answer tapped out against the concrete spelling _B - E - A - R - T - R - A - P._

It's kind of impressive, the way Bruce can manage to make a simple tapping sound express confusion. Especially considering how expressive he normally isn't.

"A beartrap?" Dick repeats, echoing the confusion a bit more clearly. That's an odd thing to leave lying around in a sewer tunnel for sure. He snorts and says, "Are there even bears down here?"

_F - O - C -_

"Focus. I know," he says, rolling his eyes behind the blindfold. Bruce is right. They've got no idea what's going on in Gotham while they're down here, they need to focus on finding a way out. A beartrap is still an odd thing to leave in a sewer tunnel. He hums and sits up more attentively, saying, "Ok. Maybe we can work with that."

He's not sure how exactly, but that's the plan isn't it? Their captor said they'd been given everything they needed to get out of here.

Anything they might use a beartrap for would probably first require moving it thought. And, assuming Bruce's hands are chained the same way Dick's are, they don't have the best odds of doing that safely.

With a frustrated huff, he leans his head back and asks purposelessly, "How do we work with that?"

The only answer, for the moment at least, is a vague hum. Alright, he can work with that too.

"Is there anything else around that we could use?"

Working with a full inventory instead of one piece at a time might at least help them see what game it is they're playing exactly.

He takes the silence to mean Bruce is taking a second survey of the tunnel grounds. In the meantime, Dick tries to locate how many rats there are. Maybe it's not their biggest worry at the moment, but he would hate for one to step in the trap. He would also hate for he or Bruce to step in it. If there's one, there could be more. Although he still can't see to what end.

That morbid line of thinking is disrupted by the message _P - I - P - E._

"Where? Can you reach it?"

_U - C - A - N - W - A - L - L._

There's a faint shuffle as, he assumes, Bruce sits back down. Dick asks, "Right or left?"

_R._

Dick gets to his feet and turns right, suppressing a wince as the motion aggravates his injured rib. The last thing they need right now is Bruce worrying about him being hurt, especially something as trivial as this. "High or low?"

_H._

Maybe it's his bad for expecting getting an unseen pipe down from a wall with his hands chained behind his back, but this step in the plan isn't really going how he was hoping. He trips over the chain once. Bruce directs him one more step to the right, which is good because it doesn't feel like the chain would allow for two.

He pushes his arms out away from his back until his fingertips graze the wall. Bruce taps out another _H._ Which probably implies 'higher.'

Dick reaches a little higher, and he manages to skim a thumb across something metallic. Except try as he might, he can't bend his arms much higher than that. He's flexible, not double-jointed. Even if he were, he doubts the chain would let him reach that far. With an aggravated huff, he drops his arms back down and says, "I can't reach it."

_T - R - Y_

"I did try. You wanna come over here and-" he cuts himself off when Bruce clears his throat pointedly. Slumps his shoulders and says, "Oh. You weren't finished, were you?"

_K - I - C - K._

"Try kick," Dick repeats flatly.

Bruce affirms the translation with a vague grunt. It does nothing to battle the caveman associations this method of not using complete sentences has drawn in Dick's mind.

Caveman or no, the idea isn't half bad.

It'll be very little, but facing the wall instead of away from it should provide a small amount of slack from the chain. And he can definitely kick a good deal higher than he could hope to reach with his wrists trapped the way they are.

"Alright, I'll try kick," he concedes after a moment's consideration. Then, offhandedly, "But you gotta promise not to laugh at me if I miss."

The noise Bruce makes in response sounds almost like a chuckle but he replies, _P - R - O - M - I - S - E._

Dick shrugs and turns until he's reasonably certain he's facing the wall, tentatively poking a toe out in front of him to gauge the distance. Then he takes a step back and does the same. It feels like a better distance now. He just needs a more solid target to be aiming at, so he asks, "How high is this thing exactly? Shoulder height?" 

Bruce hums.

"Little higher?"

_Y._

"Cool. Here goes nothing."

He doesn't miss with the first kick, but he doesn't knock the pipe loose either. Turns out when people bolt things to walls they mean to keep them there.

A second try does the trick. He almost loses his balance stepping in a puddle of what he hopes is water, but there's a distinct clanging sound as the pipe breaks form its bracket and hits the ground.

_G - O - O - D - W - O - R - K._

"Sure. I've always wanted to kick the shit out of a random pipe, so..."

Picking it up from the ground is a little more awkward than getting it down was. And there was water actively flowing through it, he can hear it splashing to the ground now that the pipe structure has been disrupted. But that's really more of a problem for city maintenance, not them.

"Well we got it," Dick says, absently testing the weight of the pipe. In a pinch it could be a weapon. Otherwise there aren't many uses for it he can think of. Frowning, he adds, "What do we do with it?"

* * *

It's far easier to forget how tired you are when you've got something to do; hunting down leads on missing family members or rushing an estranged, wounded brother back home for medical attention for instance. Just sitting still however, exhaustion has a way of catching up with you. Something not helped by Alfred's petty insistence on decaf tea.

That being said, Tim's not actually aware he's falling asleep until he's already waking up.

He's still sitting on the countertop in the med room, although there's a blanket half draped over him that screams of Alfred's doing. That's more or less to be expected. But he is a little offended that Jason didn't wake him up. Dick and Bruce don't have time for them to be taking power naps when they could be working leads.

Although, time or no, he can't deny feeling a little better having rested.

He sets the blanket aside and climbs down from the countertop. Jason's nowhere to be seen, but the now empty I.V. stand still lingers to the side of the table, along with his leather jacket and helmet. That at least seems to imply Jason's not chasing down their suspect without him. The more likely option is that he's going over the reports on the bombings with Alfred.

So Tim follows that thought out of the med room and towards the computers where, sure enough, he finds Alfred sitting at the desk in front of the computers. Jason's pacing back and forth a little ways off. On the phone, it looks like.

"Thanks for waking me up," Tim grouses, resting an arm on the back of Alfred's chair.

Alfred maintains rationally, "You needed your rest." There's not much room to argue really. Then, "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he says with a begrudging sigh. "How's Jason?"

"Stubborn, as ever. No longer at any medical risk, however." Alfred rolls the chair away from the desk, turning to face Tim. "I dare say, you both make for a good team."

"Despite our best efforts," Tim quips, folding his arms.

Alfred offers a skeptical hum, but that's the extent of his disagreement as the both of them turn back to the incoming newsfeed on the computer screens. Firemen already have a handle on the blaze left behind at Wayne Enterprises, at least. They're still reporting no casualties in either explosion. It's good news. But it doesn't get them any closer to catching this guy.

He indicates Jason with a nod and asks, "Who's he talking to?"

"A friend of his," Alfred says with polite disdain, clicking through another update. "I believe he referred to the man as Geezer Joe."

Tim represses a laugh. The name somehow sounds even more ridiculous coming from Alfred.

But then, if Joe's calling it means they might finally have something more to go on. A thought that might make Tim a little more optimistic, if not for the fact that Jason has the habit of wearing his emotions on his sleeve. And it doesn't look like the conversation is going well.

If there's really nothing else they can do until that phone call ends, now might be the best time to ask, "What do you think's gonna happen when we find them?"

"Best not to speculate, in situations such as this, but I don't doubt they'll be alright, Master Tim."

"Not that," Tim says with a dismissive shake of his head. He's been doing what he can not to think about that. They'll be fine--they're always fine. They're Batman and Robin, the original model. The 'dynamic duo.' He's sure they'll be okay. He clarifies, "I mean, the whole Bruce and Jason reunion."

Tim's genuinely not sure what they can expect, when it gets to that. After all, the two of them must've been keeping their distance all this time for a reason. And something tells him Jason's not sure what to expect, either.

"Ah."

"Yeah."

It is kind of funny, just how much a single syllable answer can communicate between family.

They both turn to look at Jason, and Tim's confident that Alfred's frown must mirror his own, as Jason looks just about ready to reach directly through the phone receiver to strangle Joe. It falls somewhere between comical and terrifying as he snaps, "This is not the time, Joe--Because I will _disembowel you_ , that's why. Tell me--No--Dammit, Joe!"

If this is how Jason talks to his friends, Tim would hate to be the Joker. Or Bruce, for that matter.

His attention is drawn back from that horrific display as Alfred clears his throat and answers, "Perhaps...It's best not to speculate on that, either."

Tim nods.

According to the latest news alert, the fire at the Iceberg Lounge has just been successfully put out, too. Although it did spread to one of the neighboring buildings.

"If he's following the same pattern," Tim says, mostly just thinking out loud as he pulls the old file onto the screen for comparison. "There'll be other targets."

"This fellow has already strayed from the initial pattern, however," Alfred says, bringing the current case file up besides the old one. "The use of C-4 in place of Semtex, for instance. And of course, kidnapping both Batman and Nightwing."

Obviously there were going to be variations in the details. This isn't Zachary Gate. They already know he's still locked up in Arkham. The question they should be asking is who would want to take his place. And, following that, "We don't know what else could be different about his plans for the city."

And if they can't count on the mission being the same this time around then there's no telling how many other locations might be potential targets.

Tim stands by his earlier theory, that the bomber doesn't actually want to hurt anyone, but that's all it is. A theory. They could also have just gotten lucky. Even if this is a bomber with a conscience, explosions are highly unpredictable. This guy could hurt any number of people even without meaning to. Could cause any amount of irreparable damage to the city.

Tim's got no idea where to even begin to look for who this might be.

He wishes Bruce were here.

"For now, I suggest we send a message along to Arkham security," Alfred says. "If this is a follower of Gate's, he may be planning to free him."

"Yeah. Good idea."

The cynic in him wants to bring up how effective Arkham security has historically been at their jobs under threats like these, but Alfred knows as much about all that as he does. And if their facility is under any potential threat they deserve to know. Just because it doesn't get them anywhere doesn't mean it's not a good idea for everyone else.

As Alfred sets to contacting Arkham, Jason paces back over towards them. "Morning, sunshine," he says, pocketing the cell phone as he peers nosily over Alfred's shoulder at the computers. "Get anywhere on your end?"

"Not exactly," Tim says, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. Then, flashing a knowing grin, he asks, "How's Joe?"

"Suffice to say, there are certain pitfalls to keeping someone around for their curiosity," Jason says, somewhere in between resignation and resentment. He shrugs and adds, "But I might have something. I gotta talk to somebody, before I'll know how useful it is."

"You mean we gotta talk to somebody," Tim corrects pointedly.

"Don't take this personal, kid, but this guy ain't gonna be too keen to talk to you."

"By my understanding," Alfred interjects. "He doesn't seem particularly inclined to speak with you, either, Master Jason."

Jason's frown seems enough to confirm the speculation. But he still has to point out, "You ought'a know it's rude to eavesdrop, Alf."

"As it is to take private calls in public spaces," Alfred counters with ease.

He should've known better than to engage in an etiquette debate with Alfred, anyway.

Tim quirks an eyebrow and says, "So who're we talking to?"

"Joe I.D'd one of the henchmen he saw down at the docks," Jason says. It sounds uncannily like one of those specials kinds of explanations that omit certain crucial details, but before Tim has a chance to press, Jason's saying, "I know where to find him, and I'm thinking he might know something about the goon who hired him."

Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but, "Why would he tell us anything?"

"We're not gonna give him a choice," Jason answers cryptically. "C'mon, kid, let's go."

* * *

Their search takes them all the way out to the Bowery.

He finds the guy Joe gave up to them, one Frank Lombardi, right where Jason says that he will. Stepping out of an ostensibly empty warehouse into the sort of dimly lit back lot that's just irresistible to anyone trained under Bruce Wayne's theatrics. It's not exactly a shock that those theatrics remain consistent with Jason.

Tim's loitering on the roof's overhang by the back door when Frank first steps out. (He never said he was immune to the theatrics, either.)

The guy glances around the lot before stepping any further out, looking an awful lot like someone who's afraid of something. Or someone, more likely. When he's reasonably satisfied that the coast is clear he puffs out a sigh and takes out a pack of cigarettes from the left-side pocket of his coat. The vague outline in the right-side one means he's almost definitely armed.

Tim allows him a second or two to light the cigarette before dropping down in front of him, the crunch of the snow making for a reasonably easy landing. He greets him with a simple, "Hi, Frank."

"Jesus Christ," Frank says, stumbling backwards. Then, more bewildered than anything, "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"Shit," Frank says, sending a second, slightly more paranoid look around the surrounding lot. "Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"The Batman." Like that's supposed to be obvious.

Tim frowns. "That's what I'm here to ask you."

Realization dawns on Frank's expression, and then his shoulders slump in relief. He takes a drag of the cigarette and says as he breaths out the smoke, "Thank god. I thought he must'a got loose or something. You mean it's just you?"

Great. He's one of _those_ henchmen.

Tim's going to ignore the blatant condescension, for now at least. Instead he stays focused on, "Got loose from where, Frank?"

Another puff of the cigarette. "Couldn't say."

"You were at the docks when he and Nightwing were taken. You know something, and you're gonna tell me."

"Why would I do that?" Frank asks, predictably. He's not sure where the misconception comes from exactly, but it's by far one of his least favorites, that, "Everyone knows a Robin ain't shit by itself."

"Tempted as I am to just let him prove you wrong," Jason says, stepping out from the same door Frank left the building through. "What makes you think he's alone?"

Frank's head whips around. Then he drops his cigarette, turning back to face Tim as if the Red Hood won't still be lurking behind him if he's not looking. He leans towards Tim and says in a panicked whisper, "You brought the Red fucking Hood into this? What's wrong with you?"

Tim shrugs. Peering past Frank's shoulder, he nods at Jason and asks, "Hey, were you just waiting on a good entry line or what?"

"I was taking care of his pals inside. Or did you wanna tack getting shot at on top of almost blowing up tonight?" Jason says, leaning casually back against the doorway. He doesn't allow time for Tim to answer that rhetorical with any counter sarcasm, clearing his throat and saying, "I believe the kid asked you a question, Frankie. You really wanna make him ask twice?"

He considers, briefly, pointing out how calling him a kid in front of the bad guys doesn't exactly do wonders for the Red Robin's reputation. Except the complaint would sound childish enough to prove Jason right.

Instead he turns an expectant look towards Frank, who seems torn to say the least. "I don't know where the Batman is, I swear."

"And Nightwing?"

"Him, either," Frank says, shaking his head. "I don't get paid to ask questions."

Jason provides a disbelieving hum. "I'm hoping you know something anyway. For your sake."

Another split second of fear dances across Frank's expression before it either passes or he suppresses it. After a second's consideration, he decides on appealing to Tim. Saying, "You making friends with the wrong sort while Dad's away, or what? You're not gonna let him hurt me, c'mon. It's not your style."

"Give us an answer," Tim says thoughtfully. "And you won't have to find out."

Frank's sleazy grin falters once more.

It's how Tim knows that he's going for that aforementioned gun in his pocket a second before his hand even reaches for it. Tim's already kicking the weapon from the guy's hand before he's got the chance to aim it, and Jason slams a tactical boot into the back of Frank's knee without hesitating.

If he'd left it at that, everything would've been fine.

But the next instant he's hooking an elbow around Frank's throat, which is a damn good way to strangle someone, and also damn far from how they discussed this conversation going in the car. Frank stills with a hand prying at Jason's forearm, understandably panicked, as Jason says, "You do not want to make me ask again, Frank."

"What are you doing?" Tim hisses incredulously. "This isn't how we do things."

"Relax, tweetie bird, I'll let him go," he says easily. "Soon as he tells me what we wanna know."

"I don't know where they are," Frank insists.

"What do you know?"

"She'll kill me if I talk to you."

Jason's grip tightens ever so slightly. "What do you think I'm gonna do?"

"Red Hood, stand down," Tim snaps. Then, feeling a frown tug at his brow, "She who, Frank?"

Frank's eyes roll back, looking up at Jason, before his gaze settles indecisively back on Tim. He says pleadingly, "I don't know. Some crazy lady. She didn't give me her name."

It's not much to go on. Gotham is, unfortunately, full of crazy ladies.

He gives Jason a look nonetheless, and he's sure Jason's rolling his eyes under that stupid helmet, but it looks like he lightens up a little. Jason presses, "She must've told you something."

"Look, all I know," Frank says, in a way that seems genuine. "Is she hired me to help steal a boat, not that she seemed to need much help, and then she asked me and some other guys to help catch the Bat. And Nightwing."

"What about the guy in the mecha suit?" Tim asks.

"I dunno who that was," he gives another shake of his head. "Didn't seem like chatty type, y'know?"

Jason sighs. "And you didn't happen to ask where you were supposed to take Batman or Nightwing after you got them?"

"The guy in the mecha suit said he'd handle that part," Frank says. "We helped load 'em onto the boat then went seperate ways."

They already tried tracking down that boat, it can't be the only lead Frank's able to give them, it can't. Maybe he could take another stab at finding the stupid thing--it's not like watercraft just disappear on the regular, there's got to be a way to trace it somehow--but how long could that take? Dick and Bruce could be anywhere.

"The other guys she hired," Jason prompts. "How many names can you give us?"

"All of them."

Well so much for honor among thieves. Not that Tim's complaining.

They get a list of people to talk to from Frank, none of whom seem all that likely to know much more than Frank does but they've got to work whatever angle they can. Once they've gotten all the information they're going to get from Frank, Jason knocks him out and starts for where there parked the car without a word.

Tim takes a second to drag Frank inside before following after him. It's not snowing anymore, but it's still freezing.

He catches up about halfway to the front of the lot and catches Jason's attention with a sharp, "What the hell was that, Jason?"

"What the hell was what?" He actually sounds bored.

"You know what."

"And you knew whose help you were asking for when you asked, half-pint. Don't get all high and mighty on me now."

Tim bristles but he does what he can to get a handle on his anger. He says, half a question but probably half naive optimism, "You weren't going to kill that guy."

The fact that Jason doesn't deign to respond probably doesn't bode well for Frank's chances.

They walk the rest of the way to the backup Batmobile in dead silence. When they get there, Jason comes to a halt a short distance off from the car, stopping to check something on the screen of the phone he nabbed from Joe.

"Know what? Take the car, we should split up," Jason says with a decisive nod as he pockets the phone. "We can talk to more people that way."

"After what you just did back there with Frank? You expect me to let you go off and interrogate these guys on your own?"

A scoff. "Let me? You don't get to drag me into this and then tell me how to do my job, kid. It doesn't work like that."

"We should stick together."

"We're splitting up," Jason says firmly. "I will contact you if I get anything, you do the same. Alright?"

If Jason's plan is to get Tim to agree to splitting up by being obnoxious enough that Tim just doesn't want to be around him, it's ingenious. And working.

As long as they're butting heads like this they'll just be slowing each other down anyway. This argument is a waste of time as much as interviewing each of these guys together would be, and if it were anyone else Tim would be agreeing to tackle the suspects separately already. Only it's not anyone else, and he doesn't want a repeat of what just happened with Frank to be on his hands if he agrees to this.

Not that there's much room for argument, apparently, and he can't keep wasting time when it's not his time he's wasting.

"Fine. Just," Tim snaps reluctantly. "Promise me you'll do this by the book."

"There's not really a book for vigilantism, but sure. Kiddie gloves are on."

He's got a bad feeling about this. With a slight nod, Tim agrees, "Okay."


End file.
